Sursum Corda
by Pough
Summary: Anger is easy when it's focus on someone else. When it's focused on yourself, it's more difficult. Jack O'Neill, in the twilight of his career, must learn to deal with such introspection.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I've written many "Stargate: SG1" stories, but I always loved this one. It was posted a million years ago when Sazz and I had a site, but Geocities went away, and so did our stories, for the most part.

This is a long story, almost 70,000 words, so I'll submit it in four chapters. It's completely finished, of course, and has been for some years.

This story takes place after season seven, when Daniel returned and was a little discombobulated. I wrote this for a couple reasons. 1. I hated writing Teal'c. With this story, I challenged myself to make him an integral character rather than sending him out to have an extended visit with R'yac. 2. I whumped up Daniel for years, so it was time to turn the tables on Jack. 3. I promised Sazz I wouldn't make it too angsty. I tried... 4. I was feeling old... I also wrote this before they killed off Janet, bah-stahds!

I don't own these characters.

**Sursum Corda-Chapter One**

**He had to be here**. There just...there wasn't anywhere else to look.

They all had been looking for Jack for six days. Six days of searching through primordial dwellings, through wastelands of long-dead trees, in and out of abandoned silos, across drought-stricken lands, and still there was no sign of him. Not one damn trace that he was anywhere to be found.

But he had to be somewhere on this planet. This God-forsaken planet-whose inhabitants skittered about like frightened, agitated rodents-had to offer up some clue.

The first thing Sam had done when they realized the colonel was missing was to radio back through the gate for reinforcements. Within an hour SG3 was outfitted and ready to assist. Since that time, two of the sergeants had maintained a patrol around the gate, ensuring that no gate activation would go unnoticed.

Colonel Ferretti, Major Deets and their new recruit, Sergeant Barrington, searched through all the dilapidated buildings, while Sam and Teal'c decided to backtrack through the outcropping of what was once a graceful stand of pines. Daniel stayed behind to think. While he thought, he found his mind racing through dark, gruesome "what-ifs." He jumped up and began to aimlessly stride, hoping that by moving, his mind would calm and he'd be able to get past the possibilities and onto the probabilities.

A week prior they had been on a meet-and-greet when, in the early evening, Jack announced he needed to, "see a man about a horse." Teal'c thought it was unwise to enquire about equines at that point, but Jack assured him that he really, really needed to make this meeting. In his wake, Jack was heard to say, "'Cause I gotta whiz like a race horse." Sam shook her head and tried to explain the colonel's exiting flourish to Teal'c.

And that was the last time they saw or heard from him.

Daniel plodded through the arid field, which had gone many seasons without being cultivated. He wondered why a once agrarian society had abandoned its way of life, because it was obvious that the furrowed rows hadn't just appeared. Daniel trekked over the rows, the hard ridges of dirt discordant against his natural gait. Pathetic sticks of straw poked out of the dirt. Daniel picked one bleached stalk from the dirt, rolled it between his fingers, and watched the chafe float through the gritty air. Like everything else on the planet, the grass had simply been left behind to wither and disappear. Daniel glanced up at the ochre sky and hoped one of their own wouldn't add to the desecration.

It was difficult to understand how something that had started out so easily, so benign, had turned to something so desperate. They had reached the planet on what they would find out later to be a day like every other day—hot, dry, resplendent with desolation. The natives-the few who had nervously flitted near them in those first few hours-barely stayed long enough for the team to take a look at them. Stooped, hirsute, grubby from pinched skulls to bare toes, these throwbacks to human antiquity never spoke, only rushed toward the four, swiped at their legs, and rushed away to places unseen.

"Helluva welcoming committee," Jack had said, cocking his head to the side, replacing the safety on his weapon. "I feel all warm inside."

"Yes, they seem rather…nervous." Daniel shoved his unused video camera back into this pocket.

"Carter, let's pretend I didn't read your report, shall we?" Jack began as he removed his glasses, took a quick peek Sam's way, and blew the dirt from his lenses. "Recap the major points, if you would, Major."

"Like what, sir?"

"Like why is it we decided we needed to come to this hotspot? I mean, aside from the obvious real estate potential."

Sam smiled and nodded. "Well, our initial readings showed significant levels of trinium in the environment, and you realize the importance of trinium to our program."

"I do?" Jack asked, which garnered him three incredulous looks. "I do. No, really, I do. I mean, you know, pretty much."

"However, it would seem this planet's inhabitants will need time to become familiar with our presence," Teal'c said, setting his focus on the barren land.

"Speaking of inhabitants, where'd they go?" Daniel asked.

"Who knows?" Jack grumbled. "Maybe they found some lint to line their nests."

More and more Jack had grown tired of the first-contact rituals. Just a week earlier he had suggested all SG teams carry a laminated sheet with them that simply stated who they were, why they were there, that they meant no harm, who to contact in the case of emergency, what the inhabitants were to be asked, and have the whole thing translated into Arabic, Goa'uld, and any other language Daniel thought pertinent. Upon initial contact, the team would pass the sheet to the alien and wait. If they didn't immediately start firing upon them, good. If, in the minutes to follow, there seemed to be no discernible comprehension, Jack's suggestion was that they leave and find a more hospitable planet. Screw the objectives, and screw the cost it took to activate the gate. Could they really put a price on Jack's time and patience?

Apparently, General Hammond could—right down to the penny of Jack's bi-weekly take-home pay.

"Look," Jack said, brushing the fine powder of grit from his hair, "call it a hunch, but I'm guessing we've seen the big musical number, so we might as well find a place to hunker down."

Which is exactly what they did. They found a relatively flat piece of ground at the edge of the scrub pines and made camp. Every couple hours, a native would dart out from behind a husk of a tree or a shell of a crumbling foundation, dash toward the camp, soundlessly inquisitive, and just as quickly scamper away. As long as they didn't propose a danger—and Jack was fairly sure they weren't capable of injuring anything other than themselves—they were allowed their up-close and personal observations. For much of the first day and evening, it went very much like that—unplanned visitations, Daniel attempting to communicate, and Jack shaking his head and blowing the dust off his glasses.

When all that was left of the day's heat radiated up from the hard dirt below their boots, Jack took a seat on a log positioned just outside his tent, a cup of coffee held between his hands. Teal'c had offered to assist Sam while she collected samples of rocks and minerals, which left Daniel time to fill in his daily journal entry, and Jack time to be bored.

"So, Daniel…" Jack began.

"So, Jack…" Daniel said, without interrupting his writing.

"I've had a chance to think—"

"Yeah? How'd that go for you?"

Jack smirked and went on. "We looking at missing links here, or what?"

"Well, if you're insinuating that our hosts are a little low on the evolutionary scale, then yes, I'd agree with you. Sort of."

"Doesn't it seem odd to you that they're running around like Bobo the Monkeyboy, and yet it looks like a John Deere 4080 just went through here?" Jack asked while he dabbed his finger into his coffee and pulled out an unidentifiable fiber.

Daniel looked up from his writing and asked, "A John Deere 4080?"

"It's a tractor, Daniel," Sam said, coming up behind the two. Jack peeked over his shoulder, surprised to find his 2IC back so soon, and even more surprised that he hadn't heard her approach. "Big tractor. PTO shaft on the back?"

"PTO shaft?"

Sam opened her mouth to continue with the explanation, but Jack shook his head. Was it really worth the effort? he silently conveyed.

"The point is, Daniel," Jack said, "I think it's strange—peculiar, if you will-that this place looks like it used to be a thriving agricultural society, and now all that's left is Curious George and friends." Jack poured his coffee onto the parched ground and watched the earth, greedy for its fluid, suck it in.

"What I find peculiar is that you came up with that sentence all on your own," Daniel said, crossing his arms across his legs and regarding Jack with skepticism.

"I would agree with O'Neill," Teal'c said, dropping a bag of geological specimens on the ground.

Again, Jack was taken aback by not having sensed Teal'c's advancement. "Hey," Jack said, poking his finger in his ear, "have any of guys heard of those cone things you put in your ear? Huh? You know, the ones you burn? Supposed to draw out the wax? Anyone?"

Daniel stared at Jack, frowned, and then turned to Teal'c. "Um, what is it that you agree with, Teal'c?"

"Should it not be our first point of order to understand the devolution of this planet's population?" he asked.

"Whip it. Whip it good," Jack muttered, his finger in his ear. When his gaze fell on his teammates' faces—beleaguered and confused—he realized they had actually heard his stream of consciousness performance of the old punk rock song. His finger slowed, and Jack cleared his throat. "That is to say, we should WHIP right into action…and…" A raised eyebrow on Teal'c; a complete lack of eye contact from Sam; Daniel left blinking-Jack shook his head, waved them off, and continued mining the wax out of his ear.

"Okaaaaay," Daniel interjected, wide-eyed and aghast. He closed his journal and jammed it into his pack. "With that, I think I'm gonna hit the sack. Call me if…" But to finish the sentence seemed about as necessary as believing anything out of the ordinary would happen.

"We'll call should our little buddies decide to do more than play 'hide and go seek,'" Jack assured him.

Daniel nodded in appreciation and crawled into his tent, and had no reason to believe that that would be the last time he and Jack would talk for six days.

Walking through the field of kiln-dry dirt, Daniel never considered that six days later he'd be playing a decidedly more frantic game of "hide and go seek."

Jack had disappeared from their campsite, five hundred yards from the Stargate. The gate itself had not activated, at least not since they first realized Jack was missing, and because of their campsite's close proximity to the gate, they were sure they would have heard the familiar yaw and whoosh. So they could assume he was still on the planet. Or not. Who the hell knew? Teal'c saw no signs of a scuffle, no frenzied footprints, which would have indicated struggle. In fact, there were no footprints leading to or away from the spot in the woods where Jack had walked. Jack had simply vanished.

Six days later, time was vanishing. And so were hopes.

Daniel kicked a chunk of hard earth and tried to force his mind to trace their steps, systematically go over every place they had been. Try to do it in a calm, rational way. However, the power of fear eclipsed his ability to be systematic about anything but fear. That burden, that overwhelming need to run, tipping over walls, pulling down ragged shelters, knocking over trees, was powerful. Daniel forced himself to think. Think.

"Jack," he said to the whispering breeze, "give me a sign. I'm trying here, but you have to sort of help, too."

Another time, another dimension, and Daniel could tap into the rhythms, become one with the sinuous paths of all. In this dimension, all he could do was boot yet another large clump of clay. It grappled across the field, but as its velocity trailed off, the sound of the earth below it changed. Daniel stopped walking. He looked down at the field and kicked another chunk of earth. It tumbled through the scorched grass and settled with a hollow clunk, ten feet away. Daniel leapt to the place and fell to his knees. Digging with his bare hands through the arid dirt, Daniel quickly hit planks of wood. He stopped digging, caught his breath and reached for his radio.

"Sam! Teal'c! I think I may have found something!" he called with a tight, anxious voice.

"Stay put, Daniel. We're on our way," came Sam's voice.

Daniel paid no attention to the order. He frantically dug, working his way to one edge of the plank. With his fingertips alone, Daniel scored the earth along the edge, grappling along the ground on his knees until he had outlined the entire length of the wood. Jumping to one side of the board, Daniel burrowed his fingers under the surface and searched for the bottom of the board—an inch, maybe an inch and a half thick. Heavy. He squatted down, forced both hands down into the unforgiving earth, and grasped the edge of the wood. He leaned his weight back, felt the strain in his shoulders, was just about to give up, and suddenly the board let loose, tipping Daniel off balance. He landed heavily on his backside; the board pummeled the ground. He rushed back to his feet, pried up the loosened plank, and strained to heave it up and over. A swirl of dirt filtered down into a newly created dark void.

"Jack!" Daniel yelled down through the opening. He yanked at the next board, careful to leverage himself better. Sweat peppered his forehead and began to form rivulets down to his eyes. "Jack? You in there?" The board pulled away from the ground with a screaming creak. Daniel hoisted it to the side. Now two feet wide, the opening was large enough for him to fit through. He shined his flashlight down the hole, tried to find the floor. Ten feet. Maybe twelve. Okay, he could do this. He shoved the flashlight into his pocket and lowered his body slowly through the hole. He held tight to the edge of the last plank as his upper body slid through the opening. Hanging on and swinging, Daniel readied himself for the fall. He let go of the board and hoped to God his abilities to estimate depth were correct.

Striking the floor with a heavy thud, Daniel winced in pain as the bones in his feet crunched beneath his weight. More like fifteen feet, he decided, followed by a string of choice expletives. He sucked in air through his teeth and coughed as the choking dust tickled the back of his throat. He stood up, patted himself down, made sure everything was in place, and grabbed his flashlight out of his pocket.

"Jack? You down here?" he called out. Daniel flicked on the light and created a circular pattern against the strangely damp wall. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped incessantly. The dichotomy of environments—the arid earth above, the fetid underground—jangled his already frazzled nerves. The smell of organic decay penetrated Daniel's nostrils, made them drip almost immediately. He wiped his sleeve under his nose, and took slow, measured steps, his boots brushing against and often stumbling over detritus.

"Jack?" The flashlight illuminated small portions of what looked like a tunnel system, complete with corroded pipes running the length of the walls. Daniel looked down long, arched corridors, down deep, sunken trenches, as far as the beam of the flashlight could go. Noisome water dripped from fissures in the masonry.

"Jack?" Daniel yelled. The air was thick and damp, musty from an indefinite time out of sunlight. The mist clung to his skin, made him cold. Shadows shifted behind forgotten equipment as Daniel guided his way by flashlight. Remnants of a mining operation lay scattered on the floor and against the walls-a rusted coal box, molded wooden planks, piles of twisted and useless steel rails, a set of scraped, crossed ankles.

"Jack!" Daniel yelped, almost dropping the flashlight. He raced blindly to the place against the wall, falling over obstructions hidden in the dark. "Jack, I'm here," he called out from the slimy floor. Daniel pushed himself back up and scrambled toward the sight. He clamored to reach the partially exposed feet-soiled and bruised. Daniel dropped the flashlight to the ground, and with both hands tore at the debris covering the rest of Jack's body.

"Jack?" Daniel cried, yanking at the solid steel grate propped up against the wall, tenting the lifeless form. With a concussive crash it slammed against the hard floor. Miscellaneous cartons still covered the body, but with each layer gone, Daniel became more and more frightened that he would, in the end, find only a body. A dead body.

"Oh, God… Jack! Is that you?" Daniel cried, clawing at the garbage and exposing a naked body lying still against the wall. The casement of the flashlight rocked back and forth on the septic ground, throwing a rolling spot against the long, scratched thighs, the sullied hips. The beam painted the body in a ghastly silver sheen, the dancing shadows waving a macabre warning.

"Oh, Jack," Daniel whispered despairingly. The abused and battered geometry of jutting bones and scraped skin became visible by way of the carelessly angled flashlight.

Daniel's hands shook, his face set in an anguished, clenched expression. He batted away any remaining waste and crouched next to Jack. With the uneven lighting, Daniel couldn't be sure if Jack was conscious or not, so he lowered his ear to Jack's mouth.

"Jack?" he called, trying to get a response. "Talk to me, Jack!" When he felt rather than heard a warm breath against his ear, Daniel almost cried out in joy. "Good. Good. That's good. Okay. Okay. What's next?" Daniel rushed a hand across Jack's neck and felt for a pulse. Slow. Slow but there. What do I do now? What do I do? Stay calm.

"I'm here, Jack. Everything's okay," Daniel assured his friend, not believing a word of it. He swiped away poultices of filth from Jack's lifeless form. He knew from basic first aid and every hackneyed medical drama he'd ever watched that he shouldn't move the body in case of spinal injury, but Daniel also knew that in this dank, algid environment, the more imminent danger to Jack was hypothermia, and if Jack had been lucky enough to survive this long he wouldn't last for much longer given the conditions.

"Okay, well…" Daniel sighed, choosing between the two evils. With as much care as he could muster given his trepidation, Daniel lifted the dead weight of Jack's head off the ground and scooted in under him, his back to the moldy wall.

"Ah, Jack… Dammit," he whispered as he raised Jack's boneless torso from the damp floor. Jack's hands fell limp to the squalid foundation. Almost immediately, Daniel felt the moisture on the floor seep through his pants. He wrapped his arms around Jack's body and scoured his cold, wet skin.

"So, how the hell did you manage this?" Daniel asked, not actually expecting a reply. He massaged Jack's stubbled face, tried to warm it with the friction. Tried to smile down into the sickly gray features, cast in shadow. "Hmm? How'd this happen? Hmmm?"

A slight gurgling, followed by a sound as weak as air said, "Daniel…"

The voice startled Daniel. He drew Jack's body closer to his and pressed his cheek against Jack's. "Yeah, Jack. It's me."

"Don't…"

"Don't what, Jack?" Daniel asked, washing his hand over his friend's back and finding it covered with turbid, wet sediment.

"Don't…look…"

"I'm sorry-what?" Daniel asked, while he clung to the enervated body and wiped away as much of the sludge from Jack's bare back as possible. "What did you say?"

"…at me."

"At you? I don't…I don't…" He pulled back his face to search Jack's features for an answer.

When Jack spoke again, the sound was barely more than dampened, unvoiced consonants. "Please, Daniel. Don't…"

Daniel peered down the battered length of Jack, and realized for the first time that his friend was completely naked. That Jack's body was covered only in muck and bruises. And then the pungent, ripe stench of body waste wafted across his palate. Daniel clapped the back of his hand to his nose and mouth and gagged.

"Don't...don't look," came the thin, despairing plea once again.

Daniel shook the nausea away, and said, "No, I won't look." He opened wide his mouth and tried not to breathe through his nose. "But I need to warm you up, okay? So I'm going to take off my jacket and cover you. Do you understand?" He leveraged Jack between his chest and his bent knees, and heard Jack begin to moan in pain.

"I'm sorry, Jack. God, I'm sorry." Daniel held Jack's head up with one hand and managed to shimmy one arm out of his jacket. Switching arms, Daniel somehow was able to free himself from the jacket. He draped it over and around Jack as far as it would go, even tucking the sleeves under Jack's midsection.

"I've got ya," he whispered, shifting his position, clutching Jack to the warmth of his own body. "You're gonna be okay now."

"Cold."

"Yeah, I know." He heard a meager groan escape Jack's cracked lips, and it tore at Daniel's heart. "You're gonna be just fine."

"Daniel!" Sam called out over the radio. Daniel jumped at the sudden noise, which only brought on renewed agony in Jack. "Report on your location!"

Daniel grappled with the jacket wrapped around Jack until he found his radio. "Sam! Teal'c! I've got him. We're here. Um, we're…" He scoped out the dripping ceiling of the place, searched his memory on how he arrived there. "Uhhhhhh, we're about two-hundred meters away from camp! In the middle of the field! You'll see a hole! You can't miss it!" His fear-laced statements bounced off the oozing walls.

"I copy that," Sam said. "How's the colonel?"

Daniel laid his face next to Jack's and felt him tremble, heard him puffing on small pockets of air. Daniel swallowed hard and pressed the button on the radio. "How long before you can get to us?" he asked, furtively.

There was a pause on the other end. And a moment later the radio crackled to life again. "We're in the field now. I think I see the hole. Hold tight."

Daniel released his finger from the callback button and wrapped his hand around Jack once more. "Believe me. I am."

"Daniel…"

"Yeah?"

"I don't…" Jack began, but stopped. Daniel didn't know if he was fading in and out of consciousness, if he was too weak, or if there was something else. Something more urgent. "Don't let…"

And suddenly he knew. Daniel gently shifted the jacket farther down Jack's filthy, exposed body. "I won't let them see you. We'll keep you covered."

In his arms, next to his chest where his heart thumped soundly against his ribs, Daniel felt Jack nod.

"Shhhh, Sam and Teal'c will be here soon," Daniel assured Jack, holding him, as if both their lives depended on it. "It's over. We're going home." And I won't look at you, he silently told his friend. I don't want to see anymore of this than I have to…

**Sounds were muted, dull and distorted**. The soft roll of his head against the cocooning gurney made the vertigo that much worse. But his skin felt warm. A deep, penetrating flow of heat radiated over his face, his body. He opened his eyes and saw a sheet of color—sallow and soft white. Clouds. The sky. The sky. Not a darkened room with glaring pinpoints of light. Not faces. Not the darting eyes. Sky.

Jack dabbed his tongue against his cracked lips and tried to swallow.

The sky. Not quite home, but not there, either. The sky. White puffs of clouds in the yellow sky. Clouds.

"Daniel," he whispered, or so he thought. Warped tones floated down toward him from the blurred images of faces above him, their movements too quick for his muddled consciousness. "Carter? Teal'c?" Had they heard him? Who was there? Strokes of color, swaths of texture, one undistinguishable from the other. But the sky…

Slowly crawling across the sky, silent and adrift, soft white clouds against a jaundiced sky calmed Jack. "Okay. I'm okay."

And then the colors went away. And then the warmth of the sun ceased to penetrate his skin. And his head rocked against the scratchy fabric. And the muted voices disappeared.

And Jack fell into a formless embrace.

**"Are the lines in?"**

"Lines are in, Doctor," a voice answered back from somewhere within the scrum. A nurse laid a towel over Jack's hips—a gift of modesty in the face of these most undignified proceedings.

Janet Fraiser snapped on a fresh pair of gloves, all the while scanning the colonel's body for signs of injury. ABCs were all good. He was responsive, but in and out—the contusion on the side of his head spoke volumes. He was hypothermic, but rallying, and the warmed fluids they were pumping through his impoverished system were doing the trick. The massive amounts of bruising, in particular the plum-colored bruise that tattooed Jack's hip, concerned her. She moved around the carefully choreographed procedures and took a spot at the head of the table. Janet removed the cervical collar, which had been placed around his neck before transport to the SGC, and began to run her fingers along the knobby bones in Jack's neck.

"Where are we, people?" she called out at the swirl of activity that surrounded him. Numbers and initials were tossed back to her, and Janet nodded, all the while envisioning each vertebra her fingers touched. Her mind worked in several different directions at one time, taking in all the information, orchestrating when to introduce this drug and that fluid, when to check the belly again, when to order more tests, when to begin to worry. "I'm going to need a picture of that hip."

"Ready and waiting, Doctor," said the x-ray technician, pushing the portable machine toward the table. The nurse in charge of the obligatory urine analysis and catheterization stepped aside and let the tech glide in beside the patient. An orderly helped the tech slide a plate under Jack.

"Colonel O'Neill?" Janet called out, pulling a penlight from her breast pocket. She lifted first one, then the other eyelid, uncovering bloodshot brown eyes. Janet flicked the beam of her penlight across the responsive pupils and watched as a glimmer of pain spread across his face. "Let's go, Colonel. Talk to me."

"X-ray," cried the tech, and the gathering instantly stepped back. A buzz of light filled the room, then just as quickly stopped, and the emergent care reconvened, hands working in synchronicity.

"Colonel O'Neill, tell me where you are," Janet said. "Colonel…" Suddenly, his eyes were wide. His chest began to buck, and the last of the color in his face drained away. "He's going to vomit," she warned the rest. Janet dunked the penlight into her pocket and grabbed the sides of Jack's head firmly with both hands. "Let's turn him over."

With great care and calm precision, the attending staff turned Jack's listless, heavy body to the side, and soon thereafter a quick shower of bile spilled onto the sheet. The force of his nausea brought him to full consciousness and washed his eyes with helpless tears. Jack panted on short gasps of air, blinking. Janet held his head in a neutral position and asked for the results of his CBC and chem panel. Another round of nausea, another spray of putrid liquid, and Janet brushed her thumb against his temple, offering him some comfort with neither the words nor time to do so. "Has CT been notified?"

"Yes, ma'am," the head nurse told her.

"Colonel O'Neill, how are you feeling? Do you think you need to throw up again?" Janet asked, watching Jack's blanched features. When his lips curved around the word no, Janet signaled for her staff to roll him back to a prone position. The towel was draped over his lap again, and the business of assessing his injuries began once more.

"Let's start cleaning him up. I need to know what I'm looking at," Janet said, wiping a thin line of vomit from the colonel's unshaven chin. Two sets of hands began swabbing cloths over his face, arms and legs. A moan escaped his lips, low and undulating, born of a hard, burning pain. Popping, clicking noises came from Jack's mouth as he tried to swallow, tried to speak.

"Colonel O'Neill, are you with us?" Janet called out, fastening the cervical collar around his neck. Janet pulled the otoscope from the wall and introduced it into Jack's ear. Once inside the canal, Janet found exactly what she knew she'd find: a streak of blood. "How ya doin', Colonel?" she asked, returning the otoscope to its holder. "We're going to need to get him to CT, ASAP. How are his vitals?"

"He's stable, ma'am."

What happened to the sky? Where are the clouds? Jack wondered, his sluggish concentration grasping to make sense of his surroundings.

"Colonel?" Janet called out, grabbing the film of his pelvis that had been offered to her. Janet placed the x-ray between her and the overhead lamp while she talked to Jack. "Oh, my, Colonel, I bet you're in some pain. I'm going to need a serial hemoglobin and hematocrit. We've got a fracture here, and I'm concerned about hematuria."

No clouds. Gray. Lights and eyes. Jesus. Not again.

"Colonel, how are you feeling?" Janet said, passing the film to the tech and looking down into Jack's face. His eyes, with lashes damp and spiked from tears, fluttered, and all he could see was an ethereal blur of backlit hair. "Help us out, sir," she said, "and tell us where it hurts."

"Doc?" Jack said, more an amalgamation of clicking consonants than tone.

"Yes, sir." Janet stopped her multitasking and concentrated on her patient, her friend. She lay her hand on his cheek, and felt the prickly whiskers through her glove. "Colonel, do you know where you are?"

Jack forced himself to swallow, and then over two blood-caked lips came the word, "Hell."

"Not quite," Janet said, smiling, "but close. Can you tell me where you hurt?"

"Everywhere."

"I'm sure. Anywhere in particular?"

Through the ever-present blossoms of pain, Jack was able to pinpoint the worst misery, and with it his worst fear. "Think I broke my hip."

"Well, your pelvis," she corrected him. Janet scooted to the side of the gurney and took his trembling hand in hers. "It looks like you have a fracture of the iliac wing."

"Not the hip?" he whispered, trying to breathe past the insurgent pain.

She stepped out of the way while one of her nurses changed a bag of warmed saline solution, connecting the new bag to Jack's IV. "No, sir. You can wait to do that when you're old and retired."

Jack closed his eyes and scowled. "Retired."

Janet patted his shoulder and read the report of his urinalysis. The nurse by her side spoke quietly to the CMO, and Janet nodded. "Well, Colonel, it's your lucky day. There's no blood in your urine."

"I don't have Syphilis?" Jack whispered, biting down on his lip.

"Not this time, sir," Janet replied, smiling at his characteristic humor, glad that it was at least intact. "Nor do you have any internal bleeding. That just saved you a rectal exam," Janet said, making way for the staff, which was preparing to take the wounded officer to the CT room.

"Doc."

"What? You'd like the rectal exam?" she joked, motioning for the young intern to grab a clean sheet.

"Maybe later. Doc?"

"We're taking you down the hall to get a picture of your head, sir," Janet said, helping the intern cover Jack's body with the creased sheet.

"Doc."

"Do you remember falling, Colonel? How do you think this happened?" Janet asked, assigning different tasks to the group of people in the room.

"Can't remember. Doc," Jack said again.

Janet stopped and leaned down. "Sir?"

A fresh wave of pain washed over his body, and Jack grabbed for her hand. Janet held tight, motioning for the others to halt a moment. When his eyes opened again, when his jaw trembled involuntarily from the exhaustion and the debilitating ache, he whispered, "All these people."

"What about these people, Colonel?" she asked, watching the clock, knowing full well they needed to get a look at his skull.

Jack swallowed and tried to breath against his scraped and raw throat. "Do they…all have…to be here?"

"They all paid the price of admission, sir. So, yes, they all have to be here," Janet told him, nodding for the group to continue on to radiology, never releasing his hand. "Colonel, is the pain tolerable?"

Jack closed his eyes and retreated to the solitude of darkness. Was the pain tolerable? he asked himself. Was the pulsing, searing fulmination of his injuries bearable? Oh, maybe. He'd been worse.

But what about the eyes? The constant gaping, the gawking, the studying of him—that is what he found unendurable. It was the never-ending parade of eyes on his body, on his naked and helpless body, that ate away at his stoicism. It was the soundless, weightless avalanche of intrusion that gored away at his tolerance.

His eyes shut tight, Jack refused to acknowledge the presence of anything else but the throb of agony all through his battered limbs. Physical pain, he could do. Shame, well…

Clouds. Open sky. Think of Minnesota. Think about home…

**General Hammond**, elbows planted into the blotter on his desk, rubbed one burly hand back and forth across his head.

"Yes, sir," he said, his hand continuing the oscillating pattern. At sixty-one years old, he was growing less and less impressed with the voices on the other side of his red phone. Still, it was his duty to report directly to the President, if not his honor to serve at the pleasure of the Commander in Chief. The double set of stars on his shoulder spoke to that honor every single day, and even if it wasn't the most pleasurable of conversations, it was still his honor to take part in it. Or so he reminded himself with each passing, grueling minute.

Still, General Hammond couldn't help but ponder that at sixty-one he could easily be retired, taking his granddaughters to the zoo, instead of entrenched in the depths of an old missile silo, giving the President a rundown on one Jack O'Neill. Yes, it was wonderful that the man had such high regard for the colonel. Yes, it also helped that the President was a flyboy himself. Of sorts. And yes, it made the general's professional life that much better that Senator Kinsey was going to attempt to oust the sitting president during the next election, and because of that, the President didn't think too kindly of the senator. These were all bonus points in George Hammond's book, but still…

"I appreciate that, Mister President, I surely do," the general said, pulling the tension away from the center of his brow. "I'll personally deliver the message to Colonel O'Neill, just as soon as my CMO gives me the okay to speak to him."

When that time was, General Hammond didn't know. Before the call had come in, he was pouring himself a glass of water in order to take some aspirin. But the red phone did ring, and so the three tablets lay unused next to the still glass. While he listened for any important words from the President other than the usual carefully crafted rhetoric, the general stacked the three tablets of analgesic on the desk.

"Yes, sir. As soon as I have any more information to pass along, I will call immediately. Thank you, sir. We here at the SGC greatly appreciate the time and support you've given us." General Hammond reconfigured the stack of aspirin and continued to nod along with each platitude the President offered, waiting for that moment when he'd receive the official "God bless, General," and he could swallow all three of the pills and hope that they'd at least make a dent in his headache.

"I understand, sir," he said. The zoo, the museum, the soccer field—hell, he pretty much would be tickled pink to help his granddaughters sort their Barbie Dolls if he were retired. Nope, instead he pushed three yellow tablets into a pile and continued to keep his voice even and sincere. "I am well aware of that, sir. It's not how we prefer to spend our time, either, but as you yourself know, we simply do not leave our people behind."

Out of the corner of his eye, the general saw someone standing in his doorway. He looked up, saw that it was Lieutenant Kolb from the infirmary, holding what the general hoped was a medical report on the colonel. General Hammond motioned for the lieutenant to enter, and continued his conversation with the Commander. "And I appreciate that you share that sentiment, Mister President."

Hearing the name of the person on the other end of the line, Lieutenant Kolb came to an abrupt stop. General Hammond took note of the lieutenant's reticence and scowled. He gesticulated more fervently that the young woman should just get in his office and give him the damn report. When she had worked up the nerve to hand over the papers to the man speaking the President of the United States, General Hammond ripped them from her hand and waved her away without regard. Which she was ever so happy to do.

"All right then, sir. I'll be sure to tell him. Thank you again." General Hammond scooted the water glass and the pills to the side of his blotter and placed the report in front of him. Concussion. Minor lacerations. Kane type I fracture of the anterior superior iliac. Why couldn't the woman just tell him what was wrong with the man?

"Yes, sir. Goodbye then. God bless you, too, sir." And it was over. General Hammond replaced the receiver on the hook and scooped up the three tablets, washed them down with a mouthful of water. He pushed away from his desk and rocked back into the supple leather chair. Easing his hand across his pate, glistening with tiny beads of sweat, the general closed his eyes and attempted to digest the trajectory of the future: Jack O'Neill, a brigadier general, and it was up to the two star general to break the news to the man with the birds on his shoulders.

They called it a promotion. Officers lower in rank clamored for the chance to rise from one level to the next, but the general knew Colonel O'Neill wouldn't see it as a promotion. He'd see it as —and he'd be correct—cleaning house. He'd see it as the Pentagon's way of taking him out of the action.

"Upwardly failing," the general muttered. "Some men would give their eye teeth for the promotion. Jack O'Neill is decidedly not one of them. And now I have to be the one to tell him." General Hammond reached into his desk and clapped two more tablets into his hand.

"Dear God in heaven, the things I do in the name of duty."

**Sam held both cups of coffee** in her hands, far enough away from her body that if she jostled them—again—they wouldn't spill on her BDU's—again. Her fingers still stung from the last bath of scalding liquid. When she reached Daniel's door, she glanced down at the cups, and decided to kick the door instead of trying to grasp both mugs in one hand.

"Daniel, hurry up. I've got coffee," she called through the metal.

The door opened a crack, and Daniel poked his head through. "Oh, hi, Sam. I wondered who was out there."

"Who did you think it was?" she asked, the fatigue clearly evident in her voice and lack of patience.

"Well, that's just it. I wasn't sure."

"You gonna let me in?"

Daniel blinked and allowed her to enter his office. "Oh, hey. Thanks for the coffee. You can…um, put it…Hold on." He moved to his lab table and stacked an assortment of books and papers. When his excavation uncovered a gyroscope, Daniel lifted it up to inspect it. "Oh, I forgot I had this."

"Daniel! Hot coffee," Sam reminded him.

"Sorry," he said, pushing aside the clutter. "Here. Put it ... yeah, I guess here."

Sam rolled her eyes and set the cups down. It had been a long week, a stressful day, and an excruciating night waiting to hear about Colonel O'Neill's injuries. They had camped out for a while in the hall outside the infirmary until Janet got sick of the three of them and threw them out, placing an airman under order to keep the three ten clicks away.

So they transferred their vigil to Sam's office. When Daniel broke the second petri dish, they decided to move to his office, at which point Teal'c informed them that he was in need of Kel-no-reem. At least in his own office, Daniel could busy his mind and hands with something constructive, something that would keep him from nervously fidgeting and offering up all sorts of doomsday scenarios. At least for five minutes.

Daniel opened his desk drawer and pulled out a scalpel. Sam stopped in mid-sip to question him. "Daniel, is that what I think it is?"

Daniel turned the knife in his hand several times before answering. "It's a scalpel. Is that what you thought it was?"

"Um, yeah." Sam shot him a peevish glare. "Why do you have a scalpel?"

Daniel's eyelashes fluttered for a moment, and Sam knew she was in store for a whitewashing, the kind only Daniel could muster up. "Um, you know, for…this and that. Mostly that." He tipped his head to the side and smiled, knowing he was guilty of having pilfered a surgical instrument from the infirmary. He shrugged his shoulders and put the knife back in his desk drawer. "Actually, this one is getting kind of dull."

Sam peered into the drawer just as it was being closed, and caught a glimpse of all sorts of illegally acquired tools. "Daniel, what the hell else do you have in there?"

Daniel pressed the drawer shut, jumped to his feet and leaned against the edge of his desk. "So, Sam," he said, coiling his arms across his chest, "have you eaten? 'Cause I haven't eaten, and I bet-"

"Daniel, I lost a set of tuning forks last week. Black leather case? About eight inches by three. Have you, by chance, seen them?" she asked, rounding the table toward Daniel.

"No. No. Eight by three, you say?" Daniel pushed his glasses up and scratched his jaw. "No. Can't say that I—"

"Because, I think I just saw it in your desk." Sam sidled up in front of Daniel, her hands in her back pockets, her gaze heated. "Did you-oh, I don't know-maybe walk into my lab and…take them?"

"No."

"I think you did," she said, glancing sidelong at him.

Daniel pursed his lips and tipped his head, not able to meet her focus. "No I didn't."

"Daniel, I want my forks back." Sam held her hands out in front of her, demanding he place her stolen goods there.

"I'm not…I don't…" Daniel stammered, a last ditch effort to preserve his perforated honor. Letting his head and the charade drop, he said, "Fine." Daniel spun to face his desk, yanked open the drawer, and pulled out Sam's set of tuning forks. "How the hell did you even see them?" Slamming his drawer shut, he plopped the set in her hand and walked away.

"Thank you," she said, holding tight to her reacquired lab equipment. "What else have you stolen from me?"

"Don't you think we should be focusing on Jack, hmm?" Daniel said, skirting the issue along with his lab table.

"Maybe you're right," Sam said. She bobbed her head up and down. "And we will, just as soon as you explain why you have a stack of cafeteria trays under your desk."

"They're very good for sorting things," Daniel tried to explain. "Say, Sam, how about a fresh cup of coffee?"

"I just brought you a fresh cup." Sam peered under his table for more shanghaied goods.

"Look, you already found everything, okay?" Daniel said, closing in behind her as she poked her head under tables and into niches. "You're not going to find anything else. Well, okay, maybe one more thing, but I can explain that!" he stated, pointed at the hibachi.

"I don't think I want to know," Sam said, scooting the mini grill back between his file cabinet and the wall. "But I think we may need to talk about this five-finger discount problem later."

Daniel rolled his eyes and walked away. "Can we just talk about Jack instead?"

"Yeah, I suppose we should. After all, it's been a whole ten minutes since we last talked about him." Sam entwined her fingers behind her back and stretched out her torso.

"See, here's what I don't understand," Daniel said, spinning around, his hands deep inside his pockets, grateful to have the inquisition over. Just to be sure, though, he glanced over to Sam to make sure she wasn't rifling through his shelves. "Why bother to throw him in a…in a…God, I'm not even sure what the hell it was."

"It looked like some sort of service bay to the underground sewage system." Sam wrapped her hands around the coffee mug and blew a curl of steam off its top.

"Right. And I guess that's my point. Why, I mean, why have a sewage system if the people on the planet presumably don't even use it? You saw the land. They haven't used any sort of irrigation, so…why have it? Things just don't add up," Daniel said, picking a pencil up from his desk and tapping it against his metal chair. "And then there's the bothersome question of how'd Jack get down there? And…"

Sam looked up from her coffee to see Daniel shaking his head, his mouth set in a straight, tight edge. "What?"

Daniel bounced the eraser side of the pencil on the chair, threw the pencil onto his desk, and rubbed his neck. "It just…why naked? What the hell, I mean, why…why did they just…" Daniel gripped the back of his desk chair with both hands and let his head drop between his arms, tired, exhausted. "It's like they were throwing him away, you know? Like he was some kind of…of garbage."

Sam nodded in agreement. That was the part of it all that bothered her the most. She'd seen her colonel injured. Hell, she'd been with him in a fissure, barely able to keep each other alive, and yet he did live. They both had. She'd seen him shot, zatted, tortured, poisoned, impaled, but this…

"And there's something else, Sam," Daniel said, his face obscured behind his arm. "I didn't mention this before because I didn't think Jack would want me to say anything, but…" Daniel turned to Sam, pulled his glasses off, and scoured the image of Jack's pleading eyes from his own. "Before you and Teal'c got to us, Jack insisted that I cover him up. I mean, I would have done it anyway, but…there was something about the way he said it. It was as if…I don't know. As if the thought of having anyone see him in that state was more than he could deal with."

"I guess I'd feel the same. I wouldn't necessarily want you guys to see me naked." Sam took a seat on Daniel's lab chair, her forearms resting on the table. "Maybe it was a matter of modesty."

"Jack, modest? I don't think so. No, see, you've never had the privilege of sharing a locker room with Jack. No, modesty isn't a word I would ever associate with him," Daniel told her, his brow heavy over his eyes. "It was more like…like he was trying to hide. Like I said, I'm not really sure what it was all about."

"Okay, but…why?" Sam asked, shrugging her shoulders.

"I don't know, but I think the answer is down in those tunnels." Daniel reached for his cup of coffee and turned it first one way, then the other, absently manipulating the mug while he thought about what might be in the tunnels, beneath the parched earth, on a planet he hoped never to return.

**With the final candle lit**, the lights turned off, Teal'c lowered his body to the ground and prepared the journey toward healing.

His hands draped over his crossed legs, his core centered, aligned with the powers of the universal continuum, he began to breathe. Deep, substantial breaths that poured into his lungs, and funneled out again. His ribcage expanding out, pulling in. The warmth of the candlelight clothed his skin, encased it.

In through the nose; out through the mouth. Deeper and richer. Center…

And in that space, where each muscle group was told to relax, where each limb was reminded to loosen, Teal'c began to release the burdens of the days, the tensions of the hours. He began to place aside the heart-cramping sight of his friend, his comrade, stripped of the very essence of dignity.

In through the nose; out through the mouth…

Set it aside. O'Neill was home. SG1 was a unit.

In through the nose; out through the mouth…

His friend was being well cared for. His injuries attended to. All was well, once again.

In through the nose; out through the mouth…

But the eyes, beseeching, silent in their petition, remained.

Focus, he reminded himself. All is well. Focus…

In through the nose; out through the mouth…

The eyes that opened to beg for assistance, and closed in humiliation and in pain.

In through the…through the nose; out through the mouth…

The body, the repository of the soul and all its experiences, was in and of itself a thing of great creation. Teal'c took pride in his own musculature. The perfect machine. Nudity had never shocked him, nor had it ever been cause for indignation. The celebration of the body, especially the body of a warrior, was part of his culture. But there was no celebratory aspect of his friend's exposed body. No glorification of the soldier's physique. It was stripped, a thing to be discarded, a husk of the man Teal'c respected and admired. It was the insouciance, the unabashed way in which they, whoever they were, had left O'Neill displayed, stripped of his honor, scathed and scarred. It was the vulnerability that took the place of the grandiosity.

In through the mouth; out through the…

Teal'c's eyes flew open. There was far too much disturbance in the room. Far too many dark, foreboding images. Kel-no-reem would not be reached under such circumstances. Not until he could find peace in his eyes, in O'Neill's eyes.

**Gray.**

The clouds were gone. But so were the orange, glowing eyes. Pairs of them, always flickering, always staring.

Gray. Which meant he was…

Jack turned his head to the side, and a soft whisper of sound met his ear, two jumping green lines across a black screen came into his focus. He closed his burning eyes once more and felt an unwanted tightening of his throat. Infirmary gray. Be it ever so…bland. Talk about your sights for sore…everything…

He ground his teeth together, not willing even for a moment to let any sappy emotion spring to the surface. Yeah, it was nice to be on base, and it was nice to be safe, but he always knew he'd get there. Eventually. He had hoped. Prayed. Cursed.

The SGC. It was nice to be back. Wow…

Jack lifted his hand to his forehead, an IV tube trailing behind. He rubbed his brow and began to understand one of the reasons for his latest stay in Doc Fraiser's House of Fun: his head throbbed. With every pulse of his blood, he could feel the cardio-rhythms pound against his skull. He grasped his brow in the palm of his hand and felt like if he exerted just the right amount of pressure the relentless thumping would end. Or not…

"How's the head feel, Colonel?" Janet asked, sliding his chart from the basket at the end of the bed.

"Doc?" he asked, opening one eye, trying to see her through his fingers.

"You took a nasty bump on the head, sir," she said, satisfied that his chart was in order. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you that it's a concussion."

"Another concussion, huh?" Jack said, sloughing his hand over his face. He opened his eyes and blinked, waiting for the focus to return. "One more, and my career in the NHL is over."

"Yes, sir." Janet stepped to the side of his bed and offered him a warm smile, her hands tucked in her jacket pockets, her concern for his apparent short-term memory loss tucked in her mind. He had made the same comment not two hours earlier, the last time he floated to the surface of consciousness. Fairly common-memory problems and head injuries. Still, she made a mental note to catalogue the conversation in the event that his amnesia continued. "How's the pain elsewhere?"

Jack stared at the conduits and pipes, blue, green and red, which crisscrossed the ceiling. His entire body ached, but if he had to pick one point of worse than average pain, aside from the entire percussion section in his head, he thought maybe his leg ached. No, not his leg. It was higher than that. His…

"Doc?" he whispered, searching her face.

Janet could plainly see the fear in his eyes, something she was unaccustomed to experiencing where Colonel O'Neill was concerned. She grasped his hand and made a second mental note to have a follow-up CT of his skull performed. "Yes, sir," she said, stroking the vascular, raised routes mapped out across his hand.

"Did I break my hip?" he asked, his focus darting from one of her eyes to the next.

Janet patted his trembling hand and smiled. "No, sir. It's your pelvis. Do you remember falling?"

Jack loosened his grip on Janet and brought his palm to his eye, forced himself to think. Falling? No, he didn't remember. Hell, he couldn't remember how he came to be lying on his back in the infirmary again, let alone what happened to make the trip possible. "No," he told her. "I don't remember anything. But…not the hip?"

"No, sir. Your hip is fine. There's a crack on the side of your pelvis, right above your hip. That's probably why you're confused. Feels pretty much the same. Not very comfortable, but still, it could have been much worse. Luck of the Irish, I guess."

"Yeah, whatever," Jack muttered, relieved that he hadn't become a non-walking, AARP card-carrying poster boy for old age clichés. Not yet, anyhow.

Janet checked the paper feed spilling out of the cardiac monitor, tore off the latest section, and rolled it in her hand. "Oh, your team was here checking in on you. I told them to come back later."

"Thanks." Jack draped his arm across his midsection and closed his eyes. So tired, and the burning pain kept building. "Hey, Doc?"

"Yes, sir?"

Jack screwed up his eyes trying to gather enough saliva in his mouth to swallow, and when he was finished, said, "Kind of keep the parade of people down to a minimum."

"I can do that," she said, grasping the bedrails and smiling down at her most curmudgeonly patient. "Any particular reason?"

"No." He shifted his weight just enough to take the pressure off his bruised tailbone, and just enough to torque the mending bones in his pelvis. "Ooooh, man," he groaned.

"You okay, sir?" Janet asked, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"I will be if you keep everyone out of here." His jaw trembled with pain. His head pushed deeper into the pillow. Every muscle in his frame tight, every nerve ending firing.

"I can have the nurse give you something, Colonel." Janet reached for the wall phone.

"No. Just…" Jack drew in a deep breath, held it a moment, and let it go, slowly, deliberately, through round, shuddering lips. "I just need to rest, that's all."

Janet frowned and said, "Well, why don't you let me decide about your meds. You just concentrate on trying to relax."

"Dammit, Doc," he began, his dark eyes shimmering with pain, "I don't want a bunch of people in here. Got it?"

Janet was well acquainted with the stubborn O'Neill act, and this latest manifestation didn't faze her at all. Still, to express her frustration, she jammed her fists into her waist and sighed. "Would it make a difference if I were the one giving you the morphine?"

Jack glanced at her, his features softening. He sucked in his upper lip, dappled with sweat, and nodded.

"All right," Janet said. She grasped his hand and made a third mental note to talk over this recent development with General Hammond. "Then why don't I go get some morphine for you?"

Jack continued to breathe through his pain, never looking directly at her. "Fine," he managed to whisper. Janet turned from his bed and began to walk toward her office. Jack closed his eyes and told himself he could stand the agonizing torment a little longer. Just a little longer. Just a few more minutes, and then he'd be fine…

"Hurry up, would ya, Doc?" he uttered, causing Janet to stop where she was and face him once again. His outburst, his display of weakness surprised him even more than Janet, and he forced his voice to soften. "Just make it fast, okay?"

"Yes, sir," she said, nodding, spinning back around. By the time she reached the hallway, she was in full stride.

**General Hammond marched down the hall toward the infirmary.** He'd given the medical staff twelve full hours to coalesce and form some sort of opinion on when he'd be able to debrief the colonel, and he had seen neither hide nor hair of any of them in that time. Well, the military waited for no one, and since he was one hundred percent military, General Hammond wasn't about to wait any longer. Reports had to be filled out, questions needed to be answered, messages were to be relayed. In short, life went on. It was a brutal fact, this business of the expendable soldier, that men and women were trained to pick up a dying man's weapon and keep charging a hill.

And that's exactly what General Hammond did—he charged that hill, that metaphorical hill to the infirmary, where he wasn't at all sure what he'd find, but, dammit, he was going to get there, nonetheless.

After all, it was his responsibility to find out just what in Sam Hill went on over there. His responsibility to be able to answer the questions being tossed at him hourly via a certain red phone sitting on his desk next to a near empty bottle of aspirin. It was his damnable responsibility to tell Jack O'Neill that his name was being kicked around for promotion. It was his goddamn responsibility to do it all, whether he liked it or not, because he was military, by God, and if the Pentagon says jump, well, the general's response was…well, he supposed that it depended on who was asking…

Still, it was his ranking privilege to be given information when he needed it, when he demanded it, and at his discretion. Did it matter that he was charging in to find out if his friend, his at times confidante was well? No, sir, it did not. In this instance, if he allowed himself the indulgence to be concerned about his friend, he knew it would be information riddled with emotion, and there just wasn't time for that kind of pantywaist thinking, not when there were so many questions that needed to be answered, and needed to be answered yesterday. No, sir.

He chuffed down that hall, skin red as boiled lobster, fist clenched alongside his rigid posture, working like pistons to propel his fury. There would be no halting his progression. He would take that hill, and he would, dammit, be given the intel.

"Doctor Fraiser," he said, breeching her office door, "I need to know when I can speak to Colonel O'Neill, and I need to know now."

The tall leather chair spun around, and the general, his hands planted firmly at his beltline, waited for the physician's assessment. Which he didn't get.

"Oh, hi, General," Daniel said, leaping from the seat. "I was just…um…waiting to talk to Janet." Daniel gesticulated toward the officer with a scalpel he had found in Janet's office. He glanced at the knife, tried to find a place to set it down, and began to stammer. "This probably looks…um, well, rather…"

"Where is Doctor Fraiser?" the general demanded, his chest rising with indignation.

"She's in the ward," Daniel said, pointing out the door with the knife. When he observed the veins beginning to throb in the general's temple, Daniel lowered his hand. "Say, General, is it possible to, um, maybe requisition a few…"

"When will she be back?" asked General Hammond, clearly growing impatient with Daniel's tangential subject matter.

"Um, well, I'm not sure," Daniel told him, placing the knife, blade down, in Janet's pencil cup. "I think she said something about taking Jack to radiology again."

General Hammond stared at Daniel a moment, taking in the implication of a second trip to radiology. He pulled his hand across his skull and clucked his tongue against his cheek. Nothing like an unsuspecting civilian to take the bombast out of your sails…Nothing like the reality of injury to take the wind out of your lungs…

"How is he?" the general asked, finally indulging his worrisome inklings, and finding that a bittersweet indulgence indeed.

"He's in and out. Cracked pelvis, slight skull fracture—you know, the basics. All in all, I think he's doing quite well." Daniel tossed around his appraisal inside his mind, glanced up toward the ceiling and nodded. "You know, considering."

The general shook his head, his temper simmering. "Do we know what happened yet?"

Daniel wove his arms around his chest and stared off in the distance, beyond the general's slackened posture, into a world of unfinished sentences, unqualified explanations. "I haven't been able to talk to him yet, sir. None of us have. Janet's been with him, but she says he's not really…chatty."

"I'd be more concerned if he were," said the general.

Daniel peered into the older man's face, and inspected the tension, the stress in his features. "He looked a whole lot worse when he came in, sir. He doesn't look that bad now," Daniel told him.

General Hammond nodded, and realized his usually stoic demeanor was breaking down. "I realize that, son. Thank you for reminding me, all the same." The general nodded again, cursed under his breath, and turned his suddenly tired frame toward the door. "If you see Doctor Fraiser, have her give me a call, won't you?"

"Yes. Yes, sir, I will," Daniel said, watching the ranking officer plod down the hall. He tapped his knuckles atop the doctor's desk, thought about the weight of anticipation, and felt he understood what kind of limbo hell the general was suffering in. He thought, perhaps, he and Teal'c, Sam and all the rest of the SGC were all roommates in that hell. What they did to deserve entrance into it, he didn't know.

He pulled the scalpel out of the pencil cup and trudged back to his office.

**Teal'c stood as tall and silent as a cedar outside the radiology room.** His expression, guarded; his concern, a bubbling well. Through the small window he could see the outline of feet under a white sheet. The rest of the body was enveloped inside the MRI machine.

Still, Teal'c waited. He did not seek out O'Neill's status, nor did he require the latest information on the colonel's condition. O'Neill's physical wellness was of no consequence to him. He was certain O'Neill's bodily injuries would heal.

Teal'c stood outside the room, his fingers laced behind his back, and waited until that time when he could look his friend in the eye and see, it was hoped, the return of O'Neill's tenacity, which had been excoriated somehow on that barren planet.

"Teal'c?"

Teal'c turned to find Janet Fraiser walking toward him. Her white lab coat rippled behind her.

"Doctor Fraiser," Teal'c said, bowing slightly.

"I'm sorry, but you can't go in there."

"I had no intention of entering."

Janet stood next to him, his size dwarfing her. She crossed her arms, looked through the same window that his eyes seemed to be fixed on, and said, "It's just precautionary."

"To what are you referring?" Teal'c asked.

"We're taking a new set of pictures of his head. It's common."

"Do you believe that I am questioning your initial diagnosis?"

Janet blinked and paused. "No. I just…I just thought you were wondering why the colonel was in radiology again."

"I recall that you have told me on many occasions that after a patient is admitted to the infirmary, the first twenty-four hours are the most crucial. Is that not the case here?"

Janet nodded and smiled. "That is correct."

A soft buzz of energy, and Jack's draped figure began to slide out of the machine.

"It looks like he's finished," Janet said, preparing to enter the room.

"May I speak with him momentarily?" Teal'c asked, his voice a low rumble.

Janet looked at her patient, quiet and anesthetized, and remembered that she had promised to keep the visits down. Still, it might do him good to see his teammate, if only for a brief time, she thought.

"You can walk back with us toward the bays, if you'd like," she said over her shoulder, half way through the doors.

Teal'c deferred to her offering with a nod and waited while Fraiser and her staff readied the colonel for the walk back to the infirmary.

The doors to radiology popped open, and Colonel O'Neill's gurney was guided through the opening. Janet, one hand grasping the bed rail, the other holding onto the back of the bed, kept her focus on navigating the cumbersome bed down the halls, always mindful that a careless airman might come hammering through the corridor and ram into the patient. Doctor Janet Fraiser had a list of expletives on which to call for just such an occasion.

Teal'c edged in next to his friend and walked alongside, glancing down at the colonel from time to time.

"He's sleeping, sir," the orderly told Teal'c.

"Yes." Teal'c continued to walk beside them, careful to turn his torso for passing staff members.

"T?"

It was no more than a whisper, but it lit like a birdsong on Teal'c's ear. He bowed his head and offered Jack a gentle smile.

"How are you, my friend?" he asked.

Jack, lethargic from morphine and exhaustion, trailed his tongue across his lip and shrugged.

"It is good to see you doing so well."

Jack smirked and rolled his eyes. The medication that pervaded his body rolled them a second time.

"I wish only to accompany you to the infirmary. I shall call on you again when you are, as you say, back in the saddle." Teal'c smiled down to Jack, his eyes soft and warm.

"Okay," Jack whispered back, and he let his heavy lids close.

Janet hit the button on the wall that opened the infirmary doors and let the gurney glide past her. "Give him a day or two, okay? I'll keep you all informed."

"Certainly."

Jack's hand slid out from between the rails, drooped over the side, searching for Teal'c's hand. "T."

Janet brought the procession to a halt. Teal'c took hold of Jack's hand and allowed his friend a moment to call upon the strength needed to overcome the powerful listlessness that had taken hold of his body. The Jaffa gave Jack's hand a tender squeeze and waited.

"Tell Daniel," Jack started, unable to speak and open his eyes at the same time. "Tell Daniel…thanks."

"I shall."

"T?"

"Yes, O'Neill."

Jack's chest lifted the slightest amount, his eyes pinched, and his cheeks colored. Teal'c enveloped the colonel's hand in both of his and waited.

"I…" Jack whispered and stopped. He swallowed hard and shook his head. Looking up at Teal'c through a gauzy focus, his lids insistently pulling over his eyes, Jack was overcome by a feeling of deep despair. His heart was clenched with a shame he couldn't account for. He shook his head, let his sight become blinded, and said, "Forget it."

And Teal'c saw that which he knew he'd see, but hoped he wouldn't-the emptiness of a warrior whose spirit had been abandoned by its owner.

"Teal'c, we need to let the colonel rest," Janet said.

Teal'c refused to release Jack's hand for a moment, hoping his friend would open his eyes yet again and show the indomitable machismo that only O'Neill could conjure up in the face of impossible circumstances. But he didn't. Jack turned his face to the side and let the morphine pull him away.

Janet reached across the gurney and placed her hand on Teal'c's forearm. "He'll be fine. Let us take him inside now."

Teal'c saw the small hand on his arm, and bowed. He placed Jack's hand on the sheets and watched while the physician and an orderly pushed the steel and cotton gurney through the waiting doors of the infirmary. To a place where O'Neill could find health. To a place where O'Neill could further peruse his undoing.

**Sometimes military protocol came before patients' rights.**

General Hammond had a longstanding policy that whatever recommendations his CMO gave him about a patient's care the general would stick to. Within reason.

With Washington all over him like scales on a rattlesnake and a headache the size of the mountain itself, General Hammond had to concede that this was one of those times when his rank would simply have to override his CMO's. He made the unpleasant decision with no joy.

When Janet Fraiser noticed her CO hovering outside the colonel's door and took in his dour expression, she knew she'd better allow the general a wide berth. She had tried to keep the world at bay, had tried to give the colonel as much time as possible to regain his tenuous hold on self-assuredness, but seeing her commanding officer's stance, she knew. She knew. Janet draped the stethoscope around her neck and met General Hammond at the door.

"I'm not sure how communicative he is, sir," she said, holding the door open for him. "The drugs are wearing off, but his head injury is interfering with his lucidity."

"Understood," General Hammond said, never taking his eyes off the colonel.

Janet stepped to Jack's side and clasped his hand. "Colonel? Sir, General Hammond is here. Can you wake up for a while?"

His Adam's apple bobbed in his neck. His lips parted. Jack pulled his hand to his chest and crooked his finger, beckoning in a listless way for the physician to meet him at his level.

"Sir?" Janet said, leaning toward him, accepting his whispered message. She shot a look of concern toward the general while listening to the colonel's words. And then she smiled. "No, sir, I don't believe the general brought beer."

"Pie?" Jack said.

General Hammond tipped his face and chuckled. "No, Colonel, but I did bring greetings and hopes for a speedy recovery from Washington."

"I'd rather have the beer." Jack dug an elbow into his bed and struggled to reposition himself.

"Can I help you, sir?" Janet asked.

"No." Jack's face was etched, pinched with discomfort. He found a more tolerable position and dissolved into the mattress, his upper lip speckled with dots of perspiration. Stabbing pain radiated from his left side, shot spiraling bolts of electric agony through his legs and up into his abdomen. "Hip?"

"No, sir." Janet crossed her arms over her chest and observed him cautiously. "It's your—"

"Pelvis," Jack stated, raising his finger and pointing it at her, assuring her that, yes, he remembered. Janet took a deep breath and nodded. Jack cocked his finger toward his head. "And this headache?"

"Concussion."

"Ah. Of course." He brought his hand, shaking and weak, to his forehead and sighed. "One more cracked skull, and the NHL may not think I'm playable."

"Yes, sir. You've said that before," Janet told him.

"I realize that, Doc," Jack said, grimacing, "but by your lack of response, I thought you might not have heard it. These are the jokes, people. Work with me."

"Okaaaay," Janet sang, turning away, wide-eyed with feigned frustration, yet relieved. "He's all yours, General. Call if you need anything."

"Will do," the general said.

"So, General," Jack began, wiping his hand over his face, hoping to scrape away the last of the ether-like numbness, "is this a social call, or is this a debriefing?"

"I suppose a little of one, more of the other," the general said, pulling a stool close to the bed. "How are you feeling, Jack?"

"Like a twenty-five year old, sir," Jack stated, "who's lived two lives. Maybe three."

"Glad to hear that." General Hammond's eyes narrowed, and a gentle smile warmed his expression. "So, all in all you're doing well, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir. Well, you know, within reason."

"Could you explain that?" the general coyly asked.

Jack paused to glance at the older man. "So much for the social call."

"Jack, I'm under a certain amount of pressure to provide the White House with the details of your mission." The General twined his arms around his chest and let the timbre of his voice evoke the weight of his words, let the lilt of his accent carry the heavy load of their meaning. "You've been in the Air Force long enough to know how these things work. This isn't official, this debriefing—"

"I sorta noticed the lack of video cameras," Jack said.

"Exactly. This is more of a chance for me to begin to understand what happened out there." General Hammond paused to let his message sink in. "So, why don't you tell me whatever you can remember?"

Jack stared at the concrete ceiling and labored to come up with a timeline of events. How many debriefings had be gone through in his career? How many times had he been required to account for his time, every moment away from the base, away from his platoon, away from his comfort level?

"Colonel?" the general prodded. "Can we start from where you first went missing?"

Jack pressed his fingers to his forehead and blinked. "Uh, sir, the last thing I remember is that I was venturing into the trees in order to…find relief, as it were."

The general nodded and said, "Right. Doctor Jackson and Major Carter have supplied me with the information to this point. I need to know what happened after that."

"Yes, sir," Jack said, wading through the bog of memory. "Well, all I can tell you is one minute I was topside, the next I wasn't."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," he began, and stopped. What did he mean?

"Take your time, Colonel."

"I'm not sure, sir. I have this memory of…of tumbling." Jack dropped his hand to his chest and felt the insistent beat of his heart under the white gown. "With all due respect, sir, maybe we could do this another time."

"I'm afraid we can't, Jack," General Hammond told him, voicing not only the urgency of the situation, but his profound displeasure at having to coax a memory from an injured man. "To the best of your recollection, what happened to you those six days you were missing?"

"Six days?" Jack repeated, searching the general's expression for the missing information. He knew he had been out of contact for a day or two, but six? The new information troubled him that much more. Six days…

"Do you have any memory of those days?"

Eyes. Pin dots of light. The sickening sensation of being constantly turned, of being on display. Jack ground his teeth together and forced himself to put into words, into dry, pedantic words, those visceral, brilliant fears that clawed at his memory. It was important to get the words right. It was important to be clear, yet evasive, for his own sake. Never let a superior officer see your weakness. Never let him know you doubted yourself, your team, your training. Never let them know you were afraid.

"Not much to tell, General," he said, refusing to look anywhere but the apathetic ceiling. "I was placed in some sort of force field. I have a vague recollection of feeling like a…rotisserie chicken. Without the skewer, which was nice. And without the side dishes, which kind of sucked."

"Is it fair to say, Colonel, that you were placed in some sort of stasis?"

"Yes, sir."

General Hammond shook his head, confounded once again by the lack of humanity in the universe. "For what purpose?"

"Ya got me hanging," Jack said. "Actually, they had me hanging, but you get the general idea, General. Sir…" Jack quirked his brow, a small gesture of apology for having used his commanding officer's rank in vain.

"During this time, were you in communication with your captors?"

"No, sir. I can't recall any dialogue." Jack dug his hands and bruised elbows to the mattress and lifted his hips. General Hammond, seeing Jack's discomfort, thrust out his hand to assist, but Jack waved it off. Once repositioned, Jack gave his trembling body time to calm, and when he felt that he could speak without advertising his true level of agony, he said, "As far as I can remember, I was on exhibit."

"Exhibit?"

"Yes, sir. That's why I wasn't sure how long I had been missing, because I had lost track of time." Jack stopped and thought about what he had said. Was it safe to admit that he had lost track of time? Would this admonition in anyway come back to haunt him? No, no, it was easy to do. After all, the room never changed—it was always dark, the temperature was constant, there were no physical binds on his body. He was simply aloft and helpless, and without as much as a watch on, utterly exposed to the ever-present eyes.

"Doctor Fraiser has reported to me that by the time you were brought to the infirmary, you were fairly dehydrated." The general wrung his hands together and continued. "Were you given nourishment or fluids in those six days, Colonel?"

"No, sir."

"Are you telling me that for six days you…"

"I was just sort of floating around in this dark room, kind of like…"

"A rotisserie chicken," the general supplied, nodding.

"I was going to say piñata, but the chicken image works, too."

General Hammond drew his hand across his mouth and found it difficult to believe that, had the tables been turned, he'd be able to lay in Jack's condition and recount a story so calmly. He shook his head and with it the nagging that he just might be getting too old for all the intensity. "So, while you were…in this stasis, was there anything else that happened?"

Six days, Jack thought to himself. Six days of being ogled, of being a specimen, of having no control whatsoever to change the fact that he was nothing more than a science exhibit, levitated in a dark room for the silent, peering masses to gape at him, stare at his body. At his body that thrummed with a chance to leap away, to brandish a weapon and bring some hurt to the room. They leered at him, at his helpless, naked form, no doubt pitying the poor creature.

"Colonel?"

At the sound of his title, Jack released the balled sheet in his hand and said, "No, sir. Nothing happened. Nothing at all." At least nothing the Air Force or the Pentagon had to know about.

"I would have to say that something most certainly did happen, Colonel," the general said, "otherwise you wouldn't be in the infirmary with a cracked pelvis and a concussion." General Hammond waited for Jack's response, and while he waited, he observed his 21C's features tighten, his hand reaching to grasp hold of the cool, metal handrail.

"I wouldn't know. Sir." Jack grasped and grasped again at the rail. He stared at the pockmarks in the concrete above him.

"You don't remember how you received these injuries?"

"No, sir."

"Were you tortured?"

"No, sir."

"Were you in any way physically assaulted?"

"No, sir."

"Well, what the hell happened, Jack?" the general demanded, coming to the limits of his patience.

Jack's heart began to race, pound like the hands of a prisoner hammering at his cell's iron bars. He squeezed the railing and swallowed against his suddenly parched mouth. He hadn't been omitting anything from his report. In fact, the Doc had asked him that same question, at least once. Like so much of his memory from those six days, the specifics were veiled, a thin, impenetrable gauze seemed to obscure them. It was when the veil lifted, when the stranglehold on his memory gave way that the fear began to surface, as well. The memory of that moment, when the force field ceased to exist, came to him like pricks of blood through newly scraped skin. He closed his eyes and filled his lungs with air, desperate to remain in control.

"I…I remember…falling," he said. "Jesus…"

"Keep going."

Jack rubbed his closed eyelids and crushed his jaw shut. It took only a moment, the freefall, but that memory, that terrifying sensation of being in an uncontrollable descent, looped in his mind.

"Jack?"

Jack pulled his hand over his face and found it damp with sweat. He inhaled through his nose and shook his head. "Falling, sir," Jack stated, much more forcefully than his true emotions gave rise to. "Falling. I don't remember anything else. I swear."

"All right," the general said, patting Jack's hand, which choked the bedrail. "That's all I need to know for now."

"I'm sorry, sir," Jack whispered, shaking his head. "That's all there is."

The general rose from his seat and placed his hand on Jack's shoulder. He had the basics. He had enough to appease the brass. He had more than he personally wanted to know. It was time to let the man sleep. "Get some rest, Jack. I'll come check on you another time."

Jack never let his focus leave the gray ceiling, only nodded, croaked out, "Yes, sir."

When the general had gone and when the silence of the infirmary surrounded him once again, Jack screwed shut his eyes and concentrated on the one thing he could handle: the intense throb of pain that scourged his body and kept his mind from recalling anything else.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sursum Corda-Chapter Two**

**Daniel held his book** as steady as possible in front of him while he made his way through the halls of the SGC. The book, on loan from the Tok'ra, was a collection of reports that had been gathered by the Tok'ra rebels. Dry didn't even come close to describing the style of writing Daniel found, and this was coming from a man who devoured grammar books like caviar. Still, it was important information. And perhaps within the arid text, Daniel might find some answers to his questions about a once agriculturally based planets going underground.

Or else, he'd slip into a coma for lack of stimulation.

If there was one thing Daniel had learned in his years at the SGC, it was that while reading during one of his routine marches through the halls on cruise control, he needed to pause now and again to look up. Scraped fingers, bonked foreheads, and a seriously bruised ribcage or two later had taught him that lesson time and time again. So it was that when Daniel remembered to stop and assess his situation with the Tok'ra book pressed to his diaphragm, he found that he was in a section of the SGC he hadn't meant to be in. In fact, if pressed, he wouldn't have been able to tell anyone passing by where he had initially set off to go.

"DanielJackson," Teal'c's called out, his voice rumbling through the corridor.

Daniel spun around and, mouth slightly agape, faced Teal'c, speechless.

"Are you on your way to see O'Neill?" the Jaffa asked, coming to a stop in front of Daniel.

Daniel pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and thought that sounded as good a reason as any to be where he was, and said, "Sure."

"Then perhaps we can walk together."

Daniel pivoted to join Teal'c and closed his book. While they walked, he wondered if he should ask Teal'c the question that had been bothering him since their return. After all, it was Teal'c who had without prompting torn off his own jacket to help cover Jack. Daniel wondered if Teal'c had seen the same desperate quality in Jack's face. He scratched the back of his head and decided it never hurt to ask -another misnomer, which he had learned in his time at the SGC.

"Say, Teal'c," he began, his book lodged under his arm, "what were some of your first reactions when we found Jack? I mean, did he seem…" Daniel took a deep breath and searched for a string of words that would express what he was thinking. "It's just that when I found Jack he seemed…"

"Deeply burdened."

Daniel came to an abrupt stop and stared at Teal'c, who did not hesitate in his forward motion.

"That's exactly it," Daniel said, and bounded the few yards it took to catch up with Teal'c. "Why do you think that is? It can't simply be a matter of his lack of clothing. Jack doesn't have any issues with nudity, although there have been times when I wish he did…"

"I believe it is a matter of personal pride," Teal'c said, maintaining his controlled focus down the hall.

"Okay, I'll buy that, but…but why?" Daniel asked, stepping in front of Teal'c, forcing the man to stop.

Teal'c wove his hands together behind his back, lifted his chest high and filled his lungs with air. "When I am with O'Neill, I sense a great disturbance."

"Within Jack."

"Yes. Within him, around him. He is greatly troubled by his experience, and it is my sense that it has very little to do with his physical injuries."

"So, okay, what you're saying is his aura, or, maybe more correctly his…psyche…is…" Daniel began and then shut his eyes. He waved his hand between them to try to draw out more of an explanation from Teal'c. "Help me out here, Teal'c."

"I know of no such aura, however, the energy that surrounds him is greatly fluctuating, and seems to be rapidly diminishing." Teal'c resumed his course toward the infirmary. Daniel watched for a moment, slapped a hand to the side of his face to coax his body to match the pace of his thought processes and rushed to catch up with Teal'c.

"Okay, okay," Daniel muttered. "So, then, this energy-why does it seem to be doing that?"

"For that answer, I believe the only person who could tell us is O'Neill," Teal'c said. "Is that not why you are going to speak with him?"

"Actually, I wasn't…" Daniel began, pointing first one direction, followed by the other. "Actually, I wasn't…wasn't just going to…ask him outright, just like that. No. I was going to…" He ground his internal gears together and came to a complete stop. "To tell you the truth, Teal'c, when you walked up to me in the hall, I had no idea where I was, or what I was doing."

"perhaps your energy is discombobulated, as well," Teal'c said, glancing at Daniel over his shoulder but continuing on his way.

"Perhaps, it is," Daniel agreed, contemplating what readings Teal'c took from his energy signature. Daniel had begun to wonder about it, himself. For months he had felt that he was a step behind, just missing the target. He knew it had very little to do with Jack's predicament, and then again everything to do with it. Would the same scenario have happened before he ascended?

Around two corners, past numerous doors, the two men walked in silence, with Teal'c concentrating on centering his resolve, and Daniel searching his mind for clarity. Past the double doors that swung open at a touch of a side button, and through the infirmary wing, without a further word, without inquiry, walking in unison, a solemn, silent, shared concern for their friend.

And when they reached the door that lead to the ward in which Jack was resting, they both paused. Inside the room, a nurse changed a dressing on Jack's elbow. Jack stared at the ceiling. The nurse lay his arm back down on the bed and took a blood pressure cuff from the cart. Without as much as a blink, Jack allowed the nurse to take his blood pressure, repeat the numbers to him and remove the cuff.

"Jack seems to be fairly cooperative," Daniel said, scratching his head, "which is strange."

"Indeed," Teal'c said.

The nurse placed a hand on Jack's head and inserted a digital thermometer in his ear, and Jack simply turned his head, waiting for it to be finished. His lips disappeared in a tight line. His eyes, black and as still as a moonless night.

Daniel shook his head. "I've never seen him so complacent."

"It is not complacency, DanielJackson," Teal'c said. Daniel turned to face Teal'c, because in the sonorous voice he heard the intimations of truth, of simple veracity, of the base context of a soul.

"Then what is it?" Daniel asked, returning his focus on the listless man in the white sheets.

Teal'c cocked his head to the side and observed his friend. He saw the stiff lines of tension in O'Neill's face, the lack of outward focus in his eyes. Teal'c felt his own skin tighten over his limbs.

"He is angry," he said.

Daniel searched the same image and found only a tired, possibly medicated man. "Angry? In what way?"

But Teal'c had slipped away from the infirmary, left to seek enlightenment, to search for the keys that might unlock the secrets to his friend's acrimony. To unlock the pain.

Daniel was left to find the answer for himself. He pushed his way through the swinging door and made a silent plea to the gods that his presence wouldn't be the thing that brought Jack back to his cantankerous self. Once inside the room, he laid his book on the foot of the bed and tapped it for good measure, hoping he'd remember it on the way out.

"Hey, Jack," he said, sliding his hands into his pockets.

Jack's sightline never left the intersection of wall and ceiling. "Daniel."

"How ya feelin'?"

"Fine."

Daniel's mouth cracked into a begrudging smile. "I think that's my word of choice."

"Then I won't have to spell it for you."

"No, no, you won't." Hearing the acrid bitterness in Jack's voice, Daniel's smile dissipated and was replaced by a concerned scowl. "So, Jack."

"Yes, Daniel?"

"Wanna tell me what happened to you?"

"I fell. Apparently, I'm a nursery rhyme, without the wall."

"Yes, and just exactly what did those horses expect they could do?" Daniel said, trying to lighten the ambience.

"Is there a reason for this visit, Daniel?" Jack asked, the muscles in his jaw becoming tighter.

"Surely, without opposable…hoofs, as it were, they wouldn't—"

"Daniel!"

"All I'm saying is, yes, they had horse shoes, and in some cultures those hold a certain amount of luck, but luck isn't going to get you –"

"I swear to God, Daniel" Jack growled, shooting a murderous look Daniel's way, knowing that he could easily kill Daniel with his IV line, given the opportunity.

Daniel smiled, relented, and said, "Well, like I was saying, it would be nice to know what happened."

Jack lifted his hand to his hair, dragged his fingers through the silver, and sighed. "I've already had my debriefing. You can read the report. I used small words."

"Yes, be that as it may, I was kind of hoping you'd tell me."

"Why?"

Daniel hesitated before answering. "Because we're friends. And because I was…I am concerned."

"No reason to be concerned. I'm fine."

"Yes, you've said that," Daniel reminded him, weaving his arms across his chest. "I was just wondering exactly how it happened."

"Exactly?"

"Well, you know, within the parameters of what would be pertinent and…pertinent."

Another sigh, and Jack rubbed his eyes. "I went out for a pee."

"Right. That I remember. Incredible bladder capacity, by the way."

"Do you wanna hear this, or not?" Jack demanded, lighting his frustration on Daniel. Daniel nodded and gestured for him to continue. Jack racked his memory to figure out what had happened after that and came up with nothing. "I guess that's it."

Daniel blinked. "What?"

"Look, Daniel," Jack said, "I don't really want to keep going over and over this. I went out for a pee. I woke up naked, floating in a dark room above a bunch of peeping…whatevers. The next thing I remembered, you were with me. That's it." He stopped, took a series of deep breaths, and shook his head, as if refusing entrance to the sense of hysteria knocking at his subconscious.

Daniel rubbed the back of his neck and decided to press one last time for the day. "It's just that, I mean, you yourself saw that planet. There was nobody there, beside the rather Neanderthalic clientele. How is it they were able to get their…hands on you? And if it wasn't them, who was it? That planet was uninhabitable. So why is it they had an underground sewage system?"

"I suppose because if it were above ground it woulda been a health violation," Jack grumbled, reaching for his water glass.

"You want me to help you with that?"

Jack brought the bent straw to his lips, and said, "No. I'm fine."

"So you keep telling me." Daniel studied Jack over the rims of his glasses, concern brewing over in his gut. "How's the pain?"

"You seem well enough," Jack said, replacing the cup to its stand.

"I suppose I deserved that," Daniel said, and thought about it. "No, you know, actually, I didn't deserve that, but I should have seen it coming."

The kernel of surreptitious truth in Daniel's words chafed against Jack's inner torment.

Should have seen it coming. When did I stop seeing what was coming?

Jack shook his head and tented his hands over his eyes, suddenly exhausted and full of the need to flee his inescapable perdition.

"Jack?"

"What, Daniel?" Jack sighed.

"About the tunnel," Daniel said. He gave enough time for Jack to cut him off, but when Jack remained silent, only rubbing his temples, Daniel continued. "You kept saying something to me."

"I don't remember," Jack lied.

"Um, yeah, you were fairly adamant about not letting the others see you." Daniel waited to let Jack interject, yet again. And yet again, he was silent. "Was there a reason for that?"

"Other than I was naked and cold? No. Why should there be?" Jack said.

"Memory kind of comes and goes, huh?" Daniel jabbed. Jack glared at him. Their usual repartee, sharp and cutting, was fine when they were on equal footing, but with Jack hardly anywhere near that, Daniel regretted having lashed out as he did. He tugged at his ear, and said, "Look, I don't know. I just thought it might be important. I guess I thought it might help you… remember what happened."

"My memory is fine," Jack said, the words splintering over his lips.

Daniel observed Jack for a moment, then sucked in a quick, deep breath and said, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Nope."

"Because it might help."

"Help what? Huh, Daniel?" Jack demanded, the words chiseling the icy air between them.

"It might help me understand." Daniel held Jack's image in his focus, wishing the stoic colonel would drop the contrived fortitude and just come out with it; knowing the stoic colonel would rather die than admit anything was wrong. And understanding, perhaps all too well, what that was like.

"Look," Daniel said, waving off the last comment, "I don't mean to push. Someday, you'll tell me."

"Don't hold your breath," Jack said, a furtive offering to Daniel that there was more to tell. Daniel nodded.

"Excuse me, Doctor Jackson," Sergeant Shaw said, standing at the foot of the bed, "I need to administer the colonel's medication."

"Oh, right," Daniel said, stepping aside. "Sorry about that."

"No need." The nurse slid a hypodermic needle into the port on Jack's IV, injected the prescribed analgesic, and smiled at the colonel before leaving.

"Janet tells me from the looks of things you'll be on your feet soon. Maybe not after that shot of morphine, but soon…ish." Daniel watched Jack return his sightline to the ceiling. "I guess you couldn't have been injured all that much."

"Guess not."

"Just enough to need IV pain medication. Luck of the Irish, I suppose." Daniel quirked his mouth to the side, waiting for a reply from Jack, any reply. When there was none, he pivoted, picked up his book at the end of the bed and stepped toward the door. "Well, just thought I'd check in."

"You've checked. Thanks for coming. Bye," Jack said, staring at the gray seam between the gray ceiling and the gray wall.

"Yeah. Okay. See ya." Daniel gave Jack one final look before closing in on the door. "You know where to find me, if you need anything."

Jack gave no inclination that he heard or that he meant to respond, so Daniel left.

And Jack, in the safety of Daniel's absence, thanked his friend for having found him. For having listened to him. For not letting them see anymore. And then he asked silent forgiveness from his friend that he might just have to disappear again. After all, no one could see you when you disappeared.

**It was the mournful pleading in the eyes that wafted like a ghost through his mind. **It was the sometimes cogent, sometimes tumbling focus that permeated his thoughts. Those unspoken words, broadcast through frightened eyes, bubbled up into his consciousness, bursting with discomfited importunity. Those anxious, beseeching words whispered their exigency into his soul, and when they began to build, to form a chorus of urgency, Teal'c breathed deeper and listened with his inner core.

"I hear you, O'Neill," he assured the questing anima of his friend, perplexed and alone, blind and afraid. "I am with you. I shall accompany you on your journey."

Teal'c opened his eyes and was met by the golden warmth of candlelight. Lights to see that which cannot be seen, he thought. Warmth to comfort the aching body.

"Yes, O'Neill, I hear you."

Teal'c unfurled his legs and stood, extinguishing each candle with honor and care, giving thanks to the holy ones and his ancestors for their gifts of presence and understanding. He cupped his hand behind each candle and joined his aspiration with the spirit of light, a union of hope. A union of thanksgiving. A union of healing.

When all but one of the candles had been doused, Teal'c drew the remaining flame and carried it with him through the silent corridors of the SGC to the infirmary. Passing airmen glanced at the Jaffa as he strode by, unable to procure any amount of recognition from Teal'c. Lab technicians found themselves moving to the side of the hall, lest they be a barrier to his progression.

Through the lengths of each hallway, the candle remained steadfastly lit, burning without as much as an uncertain flicker, protected in the hollow of Teal'c's rounded palm. Outside the doors to the infirmary, a window's barrier between the two old soldiers, Teal'c tilted the candle and poured the molten wax into his palm. The intense heat radiated through his hand, up his arm and into his chest, expanding with breath. With a bow and a word of thanks, Teal'c blew out the flame and carried the smoking candle with him into the room.

The satin sheen of the melted wax in the velvet of his palm began to change, to cool, to become matte with warmth. He placed the candle on the bedside tray, and pressed his free hand against the malleable pool of wax, drawing out the harsh degree, holding in the radiant diathermy. His friend, his comrade lay asleep and unaware, a still body displacing the energy in the room with the rustle of unspoken turmoil.

Through the antiseptic, lifeless air Teal'c reached for Jack's hand. He grasped the fingers, turning up the colonel's limp palm. Forming the pliant heat against Jack's hand, Teal'c encapsulated the joining with both of his hands, closed his eyes, and willed his essence to greet his friend's.

Time and light began to swirl. A falling, a diving, a great release of gliding across ethereal planes. Toward the light and toward the comfort. A vortex of self and others, grace and forgiveness, health and vitality.

Into his willing yet insensate body, Jack gave into the change—temperate and restorative. From the meld of spirit and life, heat and seeking, Jack's tattered body began to respond. He lifted his chin, and in his slumber filled his neglected lungs with air, held fast at the redemption within his grasp.

"Be well, O'Neill," Teal'c sent through the communal matrix. Teal'c held tight to the grasping hand, held on even when the darkness of fear began to encroach on their shared reverie. He pressed the liquefied presence of sanctification more fully into the deep lines in Jack's hand, and said, "I am with you. You are not alone."

Light split the darkness, soft winds carried away the debris of suffering. The scent of lilac blossoms filled Jack's nose. The lilacs of youth, of bicycles and sunshine. Of innocence.

"Sursum corda," Jack whispered, the words and intonation trickling out over his lips from his entombed past. His mind in that far away place, his body tingling with life, he whispered words from the depth of his soul. "Sursum corda…"

"Yes, O'Neill." Teal'c bowed his head in deference. "Find peace, O'Neill."

"Sursum corda…"

**"Oh."**

It was said so matter of factly that Sam hardly even heard it. She looked up from the rim of her coffee cup and saw Daniel's patented expression of discovery.

"Daniel?" she asked, pushing her cup aside.

Daniel stared hard into his coffee while swirls of steam occluded his glasses. "That's it."

Sam reached across the table and touched his hand. "Daniel? Wanna share?"

"Nirrti," he said, trying to see through his fogged lenses.

"What's that?"

Daniel removed his glasses and cleaned them off with his t-shirt, licking his lips, formulating a coherent and complete sentence. "I was reading through Jonas' reports the other day—it's funny, but did you know he was left-handed? Peculiar…slant to everything…"

"Daniel."

"Oh, sorry," he said, returning his glasses to his face. "Anyhow, I read the report about Nirrti and her fascination, if you will, with DNA. Or, I suppose her genetic experimentation would be more appropriate."

"And?"

"We're not really sure all the places she went to conduct her…"

"Experiments?"

"Genocide, I was going to say, but, yeah," Daniel said, blinking.

"Okay, I'm not sure where this is going, Daniel," Sam said.

He pressed both forearms into the side of the table and began to launch into an explanation. "If I read Jonas' notes correctly, he reported that the people on…You know, I used to be much better at remembering these destinations."

Sam had the strangest sensation that she knew exactly the direction Daniel was taking in his thought process, and waved her hand between them, beckoning him to continue on with his theory.

"Well, okay, so if I have read it correctly, she took these people and played Twister with their DNA. A once thriving, culturally significant community of people, and along comes Nirrti, and they are destroyed. Their bodies and minds, um, jumbled up. I believe Jonas spoke of it as 'an amalgamation of tumors and feral behavior.' Sam," he said, pausing to breathe, "what if the people on P57-263—"

"64," Sam corrected, tossing out the correct address for the planet on which Jack had been kidnapped.

Daniel locked eyes with her, but only so that he could process the correction. Since the de-ascension he found himself keenly aware that he had suffered memory loss here and there, and always at the strangest times. Numbers, usually. It was very disconcerting for Daniel, and he absently pressed his jaw forward.

"Daniel?"

"Oh, um, so these people on…" he said, trailing off but keeping Sam's connection. "…they were a civilized group until Nirrti came along. From Jonas' report, they had architecture, class distinction, and…"

Sam nodded. "And agriculture."

"Right." The two friends, scientists and teammates, held each other's focus, working on the same theory.

"So, wait a minute," Sam said, closing her eyes. "If Nirrti had turned those farmers into Neanderthals, and if they really did lose their more advanced human attributes, how is it possible that they were able to hold Colonel O'Neill in a stasis field? You gotta admit, that's pretty technical stuff. From what I saw, the people on that planet couldn't have developed the wheel, much less a stasis chamber."

"Right, right, but…" Daniel's eye shone with determination, "in his notes, Jonas said there were other people who hadn't been affected by Nirrti. Maybe we just didn't see everyone on the planet. Maybe there were others who…who fled, who went into hiding." With each thought, his words became quicker, tumbling from his mind almost before his mouth could mold them. "I mean, think about it, Sam, Jack described being taken down into a room. We found him underground. What if those other people sometimes came to the surface of the planet to explore, or or or or scavenge, and Jack happened to be in the wrong place at the right time? I mean, Sam, doesn't it all add up?

Sam rubbed her hands together thinking. What had the colonel said at the formal hearing? She supposed they could go to the general and ask for the transcripts, but while she recounted that day in her memory, her head began to nod, and Daniel's theory began to hold water.

"He wasn't ambushed by the surface inhabitants," Sam said, her eyes wide with comprehension.

"He was ambushed by the ones underground."

They stared at each other, a bond of sparking insights, flashing and shared acumen. How could they not have known this all along? How could they have missed such elemental clues?

"Sam," Daniel said, reaching across the table, as if he were going to grab her hand. "Teal'c said Jack's angry. He said that Jack had lost something of himself down there. This is our chance to get it back."

"Do you think that's possible?" she asked.

"We'll never know until we try." Daniel peered into her eyes, flooding her with his own insistence. "Sam, I have to go back there."

"Wait," she said, unnerved by his choice of pronouns. "You have to go back there?"

"Yes," he said, blinking. "Me, you, Teal'c—we."

"That's not what you said," Sam reminded him.

"It's not important, Sam," Daniel said, feeling his frustrations grow. Every minute they discussed the issue was another taken away from exploring the mystery. "What's important is that we go."

Sam searched his eyes for things she had an inkling were there. What it was she was looking for, she wasn't sure. When was she ever sure what she was looking for? She shrugged and said, "So, what now?"

"We go to the general, tell him we have to go back." Daniel rose from his seat, propelled by the kinetic rush of breakthrough.

"Okay, wait," Sam said, reaching toward him to bring him back to the fold. "Why do we need to go back? For what purpose?"

Daniel glanced around the room, exasperated by Sam's question. "Because it's there. Because there are questions we can't answer. Because…because I don't understand, and I really want to understand."

"So we're going to activate the iris—an activity that costs millions of dollars every time it's done—so that we can…understand?" Sam asked, looking at him sidelong.

"Yes. We've activated the iris for less."

"Fine. Let's say we go back there. What happens if one of us is taken? What then?" Sam asked, hunching her shoulders.

Daniel peered at her over his glasses. "Then we know where the sewer system begins, at the very least. We follow it to where the stasis chamber is. Sam…"

"Okay, so you do all that. What's your objective once you meet the natives?"

"We communicate with them." Daniel shifted from one foot to the other and punched his glasses toward his face. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because these are the questions the general is going to ask, and we need to have a better reason for wanting to go back there than, 'because it's there,'" she told him, and he knew she was right.

Daniel ran his tongue across his teeth and shrugged. "It worked for Mallory."

"And it's worked for us a number of times, but I don't think this is going to be one of them," she said, hating to squelch his enthusiasm. "I think we need to talk to the colonel first. Find out if he's interested in having us go back."

"Jack, huh?" Daniel said. He shoved his hands in his pockets and bounced on his toes considering what Sam had said. "Jack."

"As in, 'Nothing happened, General, and I don't see a reason for going back' Jack." Sam bobbed her head up and down, willing Daniel to see it her way.

"So, if I can get Jack to see the importance of going back to…P57-26..."

"Four."

"Right. If Jack will sign off on it…"

"I don't know why the general wouldn't do the same."

"Exactly," Daniel said, his fingers exploding open in a sign of his enthusiasm.

If the general gave the go-ahead, Sam would go. But there was this wavering in her conscience that said this particular mission, although exciting and challenging, was one she didn't necessarily need to proceed with. Plus, she knew the colonel's desire not to revisit the place, and that had to count for something. He wasn't one just to make arbitrary decisions. Well, not often. Still, Daniel had a way of goading her, of appealing to her scientific side, and sometimes she just needed to step back and see it through all her facets, and she had a sneaking suspicion Major Carter wasn't completely on board. "Well, I guess all we can do is ask."

"Right."

"Right."

Daniel stared at the floor, figuring out what he was going to say to Jack. Trying to decide just exactly what he needed to say in order to get Jack to agree. Wondering if he had the power to move that seemingly immoveable object.

**"What the hell is going on in here?**" Janet demanded, having heard the angry voices and crashing trays, even in her office.

"Colonel O'Neill is refusing assistance, ma'am," the nurse said, swiping her hand over her uniform, removing the colonel's lunch from the front of her. "Vehemently."

"Watch it, Airman!" Jack warned, pointing one defiant finger at the young woman. He wobbled unsteadily on one foot, and his hand strangled the bedrail. "You're about a fifty-cent cab ride away from the brig."

"Yes, sir," she said, though without great conviction.

"Nice command you got going here, Doc. Do they teach insubordination in the medical corps, or is this something you practice in your department?"

The nurse, hearing the foreboding words, straightened up, and tried to apologize. "Sir, I meant no—"

"What, sergeant? You meant no what?" he asked, drilling through her with his venomous growl and dagger eyes.

Janet held up a hand to the young woman, allowing her to remain silent. "Sergeant, you are excused."

"No, you're not!" Jack barked.

Janet stood down the colonel with her own obdurate glare. "You are dismissed, Sergeant—"

"Hey!" Jack yelled, slamming his fist against the bedside table, rattling the casement. The nurse waffled in her steps, not fully knowing which order to follow. "Who's the ranking officer here?"

"In this infirmary, sir, you're looking at her." Janet's body held fast in its spot; her lips, sealed in one tight line. Only the slight narrowing of her eyes gave any hint of the volcanic anger building inside her. "Sergeant Charles, I said you are dismissed."

"Yes, ma'am," she said, and didn't wait for any other contradiction.

Jack's body shook with anger, undone by his immobility and a junior officer. "You are way out of line, Doctor Fraiser."

Yes, she thought, in any other circumstances overruling a superior officer's orders was out of line. However, in her infirmary, where rank had no other distinction other than what title they called you when they asked if your catheter was comfortable, the good colonel was the officer in the wrong. He was also the officer about to get one hell of a scolding.

"Sir, you would do well to remember that while you are in my infirmary…"

"Oh, please! Not the 'my infirmary' bullshit, again," Jack said, feeling the weight and pressure of his fatigue sweeping over his body.

"That's it!" she said, snatching up the phone on the wall.

"Who you gonna call? Teal'c? 'Cause I'm here to tell ya, nobody else on this base has half the—"

"I'm calling General Hammond, Colonel," she said, punching in the number. "I'm having you transferred to the Academy Hospital."

"You can't do that," Jack said, reaching for the phone, finding it one painful yard too far away. "Stop it, Doc. That's enough!"

"I agree!" Slamming the phone on the hook, Janet focused all her fury on the colonel. "It is enough! The temper, the inconsideration, the disrespect for my staff and me—it is absolutely enough! For this moment on, you will control your anger, sir, or I will, with very little provocation, boot your ass out of here."

"I'd like to see you try," he muttered, barely able to keep his body upright.

Janet tore the receiver from the wall and began to dial the general once again.

"Fine," Jack said, waving his hand toward the phone. "Fine. Fine! Dammit, you made your point."

She held the phone midway between the wall and her ear, almost wishing he'd say one more thing, just one more ill mannered comment.

Janet Fraiser was tired of it. The man had been in her infirmary for a week recovering, and if he wasn't obstinate in his taciturnity, he was foul-mouthed and pugnacious. There didn't seem to be any middle ground with him, unless she drugged him, which she could no longer justify. At least not by any medical standards.

"I said fine!" he crackled, sailing his arm through the air. "Put the damn phone down." When Janet remained unmoved by his salty demand, Jack tempered his speech and added, "Please. Please put the phone down, all right?"

She could hear the contrition in his voice, masked as it was, and gave him a slight bit of room for the discomfort he was surely feeling, but she did not waver in her unyielding stipulation that he behave himself, henceforth.

"Please," he said again, unable to keep his head up any longer. "Just…put it down."

And she did. She hung up the phone, and turned her attention to her patient. "Colonel, you should lie down."

"I'm fine," he said, though it held no validity.

"Want to tell me what this was all about?" she asked, hiding her hands, balled up in livid fists within her pockets.

"No! Everything is just great." Jack grimaced with pain, the side of his hip sizzling under the white scrubs. He pivoted on his one good heel, grabbed hold of the bed rails with both hands. Jack leaned forward, taking most of his weight with the strength of his trembling arms, ducked his head down, hiding his agony. "In fact, it's one big ball of fun, dammit." He was breathing heavily, practically choking on his pain and, from the looks of it, anger.

"Colonel," Janet said, lowering her voice, placing one hand on the small of his back, "why don't you get in bed."

"Because, Doctor," he started, biting out each word with malice, "I have to pee!"

"That's fine, sir, then I'll call Sergeant Ch—"

"For Christ's sake, Doc, I can pee by myself!"

"Fine!" she yelled back, equaling his resentment. "Go ahead! Be my guest, but when you fall over and crack your pelvis again, understand that the only thing I'm going to do is call the Academy Hospital to send over an ambulance!"

That seemed to shut him up, she thought, or maybe it was that he was in too much agony to argue back. The back of his neck bore rivulets of sweat. His arms shook under the weight of holding his body steady and vertical.

"You've got a choice, Colonel," she said, rounding the side of the bed in order to be face to face with Jack, "you can either have Sergeant Charles assist you to the bathroom, or you can use the receptacle in your toilet kit."

Jack shifted his weight, let go of the bar with one hand, and swiped it across his perspiring face. He wasn't strong enough, however, to maintain the position for long, so he dropped his elbow to the rail and his head to his hand. He had been breathing so heavily, with such force, that his tongue stuck to the top of him mouth when he tried to swallow.

"Colonel?"

"Fine," he said, yet again, the only word he could find to use in the face of bitter surrender.

"Fine, what?"

There was no movement for a brief period on Jack's side of the bed, and Janet wondered if she ought to move to his side in case he began to fall. Then, as if he knew he'd better show that he was still in control of himself, Jack tilted his head toward her, and said, "Can I, at the very least, piss into that thing while I'm standing here, instead of having to do it lying down?"

"I'm not sure," she said, scrutinizing his gray pallor, the deep ridge between his eyes. "Do you think you're able to?"

A dozen surly comments peppered his thoughts before he decided on, "Yes."

"Then, be my guest," she said, reaching under his bed for his toiletries. She handed the plastic-handled receptacle to him across the mattress and waited for him to find the strength to take hold of it. "I'll step outside."

"Thank you," he said, and he meant it.

He waited until he could no longer see the flourish of her white lab coat before he spun his body around and propped himself up on the edge of the bed. The pressure of the soft mattress against the back of his hip, however slight, left him breathless and lightheaded. He closed his eyes and waited for the feeling to pass. When the scramble of bright flashes across his eyes faded, Jack untied his pants, pushed down the waist, and held the receptacle in front of him.

The relief he felt at emptying his bladder was nullified by the humiliation of having to urinate into a bottle. Old men and the disabled used these things, he thought. It was the despondent reality that he was a little of both which plowed through his body, crackled through his brain. He cursed under his breath; spat epithets against the disgrace of having to employ a can, rather than being able to walk the few steps to the can.

When he was finished, he set the bottle on the bedside table and pulled up his pants, stringing together a rancorous gathering of acerbic profanities.

"Colonel?"

Jack brushed his hand across the front of his scrub bottoms, mumbled a few undistinguishable words, and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

"Now can you get into bed?" Janet asked, weary of the special attention the colonel always demanded while in the infirmary. He nodded, and she reached out to assist him.

"I can do it," he whispered, the fight almost gone. Janet tossed an antiseptic wipe on his pillow, took his receptacle into the bathroom and flushed the contents, washed her hands. Jack inched his hips onto the bed, clasped the bedrail in his sweat-dampened palm, and hooked his hand under his knee.

"Colonel, let me-" she began, leaning toward him. His impressive glower focused directly on her told her to back off.

With a great deal of effort and considerable pain, Jack first swung his good leg onto the bed, followed by the injured leg, his hand aiding the motion. He sucked air in through his clenched teeth; let it out in a hollow stream.

Janet shimmied the disheveled covers from under his legs and held both the coverlet and the sheet in wait. It took him longer than it should, she thought, but finally he pushed his languishing body up the bed and dumped his torso onto the inverted mattress. His eyes glistened with asperity and fatigue. He ripped open the wipe, washed his hands with it, and crumpled the packaging. Janet offered him an emesis basin, and Jack tossed it in. Janet drew the sheet and blanket up over his legs, clear up to his chest. She folded back the two edges, nice and neat, smoothed them down, and let her hand linger for a moment on Jack's chest. Even through the gathering of cloth, she could feel his heart pounding.

"Jack," she said, shifting into the intimate and away from the formal, "I want to ask you—not as your doctor, but as your friend—how are you?"

Their eyes never met. If he had heard Janet's question, he didn't give any indication that she should expect an answer. She was about to leave, frustrated by his puerile behavior, when she heard him whisper, "Doc."

"Yes?" she said, brushing her thumb against his sternum, a show of friendship above and beyond the battle of wills and ranks.

But he didn't say anything more. He never looked at her. He stared, glassy-eyed at the opposite wall, and hoped sleep would come soon to him.

Just when she thought her moment had passed and she chose to let him rest, his hand slid over hers, tightened around her slim fingers, and made it impossible for her to even think of leaving his side. She looked down at her small hand, encapsulated in his larger hand, and she nodded, acknowledging the words she knew he couldn't speak, the pain and fear he could never utter.

She propped herself up on the edge of the bed and stayed with him until he fell asleep.

**Teal'c glided into the doorway and rapped on the door**. Janet's face popped up from her reports, and when she saw Teal'c's open and smiling face, she smiled back and folded over the cover of Lieutenant Belker's chart.

"Good morning, Teal'c," she said, twining her hands around her pen.

Teal'c's eyes softened demurely, his head bowing. "It is indeed a good morning, Doctor Fraiser." He motioned toward the office chair in front of her desk, requesting tacit permission to sit. Janet gave him absolute and perfunctory consent, and when he grasped hold of the chair arms in order to lower his body, his biceps bulged. Janet felt her lungs involuntarily spasm, sucking in a short burst of air. She washed her hand across her cheeks, hoping to mask the blush that seemed to spray across her face. She was a doctor, and as such, these things shouldn't bother her so. His was just a body, a skeleton, much like any other skeleton with massive arms and chiseled torso. Just another body. Another exquisite, hard body. One that was rippling and warm, and…Oh, my…

"Doctor Fraiser, are you well?" Teal'c asked, watching her press the cool back of her hand to her forehead.

"Yes! Yes, thank you. I'm…I'm fine." Janet forced herself not to rest her eyes on the distinct swell of pectoral muscles thinly veiled by the black, woven shirt. She cleared her throat, and thought it was best to pretend to be a little ill. A little feverish. Not so much of a lie, she thought. She touched her fingers to her lips, coughed and smiled. "So, Teal'c, how can I help you this morning?"

"Colonel O'Neill seems to be recuperating well," he said.

"Yes, he is."

"Are his injuries the type and severity that will require him to be on inactive duty for an extended period of time?"

Janet poured a glass of water, and hoped that it would cool her inner fire. "I don't believe so, no. Why do you ask?"

"It is imperative that Colonel O'Neill return to his normal activities in a most expeditious manner."

Janet locked eyes with Teal'c, her hormonal interest in him suddenly taking a backseat to her professional interest. "Not that I'm disagreeing with you, Teal'c, but why do you say that?"

"It is my experience that a warrior should return to the theatre where he is most comfortable, as soon as possible," Teal'c said, his voice becoming more insistent.

"Yes, well, that may be, but it is my experience that a warrior must heal completely before being asked if he'd like to return," she told him. "And that is a question that I alone will ask. Do I make myself clear?"

"Indeed," Teal'c acquiesced, bowing in a genteel and respectful manner, not only to her rank and office, but also to her strength. "In no way did I mean to overstep my authority, only to express my concern."

Janet let her spine, rigid with indignation, relax. She sat back in her chair and crossed her legs underneath her desk. "Forgive me, Teal'c. Call it being over-protective of my patient." Teal'c smiled, and Janet went on. "I realize you and the colonel are teammates. More than that, I'm sure, and I know you are concerned for him, but I've never known you to ask about another person's recovery before."

Teal'c began to lift his body from the chair. "Perhaps it is not my place."

"No, no." Janet waved him down, and Teal'c remained seated. "I didn't say you had no right to ask. I'm just curious—what is it about Colonel O'Neill's latest injuries that concerns you?"

Teal'c found a spot over her shoulder into which he stared. He drew in a deep breath, lifting his chest high, and deliberated how he should answer her question, and how he should protect the intimate knowledge he knew of his friend's inner turmoil. When at last he was ready to proceed, his line of vision slid across her face to her eyes, and his chin dipped, a show of humility, a show of compassion.

"Doctor Fraiser, since coming to the SGC, I have had to study a lifetime of lessons in order to survive on this world so different from my own. I am grateful to the people of the SGC, you included, for guiding me on my journey."

"You've done a remarkable job, Teal'c," Janet said, reaching toward him across her desk, not quite making contact, but demonstrating her care and respect, all the same.

"Thank you," he said, his eyes sparkling beneath a fringe of obsidian lashes. "The worlds in which Colonel O'Neill and I originate could not be more dissimilar, to be sure. However, where our paths unite is in our lives as warriors. It is here where I am able to find, as you say, my comfort zone." One corner of his mouth edged into a smile, an unspoken tip of the hat to the doctor that he, too, understood the absurdity of a Jaffa using such blatantly Tau'ri colloquialisms. Janet appreciated the humor and the sentiment, and brought her hand to her mouth to quiet a chuckle.

And once again the time for levity was over, and Teal'c's expression transmitted the change in temperament. "The training for a Jaffa is extensive. There is as much time spent cultivating the inner warrior—sin'tek'ateh, in my language—as there is in shaping the outer or bodily warrior—shan'ak'ateh. When a young Jaffa trains, he is expected to give equal attention to both sin'tek'ateh and shan'ak'ateh. Indeed, Kel-no-reem is a time for the Jaffa to focus in on his sin'tek'ateh, or his inner warrior, while his body heals."

"The connection between the mind and the body," Janet said, nodding. "Yes, more and more we're seeing the power in that."

Teal'c lowered his head, smiling gently. "Precisely. When a warrior such as O'Neill has been injured in battle and yet his sin'tek'ateh remains unharmed, there is no cause to believe that soldier will require anything beyond the requisite Kel-no-reem. However, when a warrior's injuries include both, no matter how minimal the trauma to his shan'tek'ateh, if the inner warrior is compromised, the bodily warrior will never fully heal."

Janet nodded, making the link between what her Western medical training had taught her, as opposed to the Eastern traditions of medicine, a tradition she was beginning to understand more and more. "This makes perfect sense to me, Teal'c. However, I'm still unclear about one thing: How does this pertain to Colonel O'Neill? Are you concerned in some way about his mental health?"

"If my limited knowledge of your differing approaches to treatment of the body is correct, what you speak of as mental health is a relationship with the personal emotional state, whether that is chemically compromised or experientially compromised."

"It's a little more complicated than that, but go on."

"What I am speaking of is a state of consciousness which can only be achieved by the most elite warriors, of which Colonel O'Neill is certainly one," Teal'c said, his voice gaining intensity. Janet sat back in her chair and allowed Teal'c to speak freely. "Just as I am able to reach into my mind and access my sin'ak'ateh, I am also keenly aware of the same state of consciousness in other warriors. It is again part of a Jaffa's training to do so. For many days now, I find myself troubled by the unrest in O'Neill's sin'ak'ateh."

"Uh-huh," Janet muttered, her eyes fluttering. She'd been having the same misgivings regarding Jack's recovery. That his injuries went far deeper than the physical ones. But Janet only knew how to heal the body, healing the mind was something for which she'd never had the time, nor the understanding. Although she'd always been aware of Teal'c's impressive intelligence, she was only learning of his acute sensitivity to those around him. She was beginning to suspect that Teal'c was the only one who had an inkling of understanding just what was going on in the colonel's troubled mind. "How can I help?"

Teal'c closed his eyes and bowed his head, issuing forth a silent appreciation to her. "It is my intention to assist Colonel O'Neill regain his sin'ak'ateh, and in order to do that I must understand the colonel's physical abilities or limitations at this point in his recovery."

Janet leaned forward, resting her arms on her desk. "You realize that becomes an issue of patient-physician confidentiality, don't you?"

"I will accept any and all information you can provide," Teal'c said.

Janet looked him over, deciding the adage that it takes a village to raise a child should somehow apply to the colonel. After all, she was fairly tired of raising the childish colonel from his sick bed, so employing as many people as possible to help might just be the trick.

"Well, okay…" she began, smoothing her lips together and tapping her pencil on her desk blotter. As long as she only discussed those injuries that were common knowledge, she wouldn't be broaching her ethical code. "Let's start with his pelvis fracture. It's been a few weeks now, and the fracture is healing quite well. In fact, he's working with a physical therapist everyday in order to resume his normal activity as quickly as possible."

"That is indeed good news," Teal'c said.

"Yes, it is. There were other minor injuries, but they've all healed nicely. As for his concussion, he's out of the woods. I'd rather you not spar with him, however."

"I feel certain we shall refrain," Teal'c said, smiling.

"Then, I don't see any reason why you shouldn't be able to…assist him in the repair of his…" Janet paused, blinked, and waited for Teal'c to finish her sentence for her.

"His sin'ak'ateh."

"That would be the one."

"I am grateful for you the information you have provided, Doctor Fraiser," Teal'c said, lifting his body from the chair, setting Janet's biological workings into a tizzy.

"Oh, sure," she said, whisking her bangs off her forehead, pulling the front of her shirt, suddenly tight, off her chest.

Teal'c pivoted toward the door, then pivoted again and bowed. Janet wiggled her fingers in his direction, and when he was clearly out of sight, dropped her hands on her folded arms, and groaned.


	3. Chapter 3

Sursum Corda-Chapter Three

**"This shouldn't be that difficult,"** he said to himself, looking at the access card that had fallen to the ground. "All I have to do is…the impossible."

"Sir," a passing airman said.

Jack turned his head and readied his mouth to call the soldier back, but stopped. In that split second he had weighed the difference between asking for help, and taking another blow to his pride.

His pride was bruised enough.

He let the younger, mobile man continue on his way, while Jack remained stationary outside the elevator doors, his access card at his feet.

All he had wanted to do was get out of the infirmary for a couple minutes or…days. He had tossed around enough personal attacks and cast about enough familial aspersions to ensure that the infirmary staff would leave him the hell alone for at least an hour. And then he went about the arduous and somewhat agonizing activity of getting out of bed, dressing, and slipping out of the infirmary.

It was all going so smoothly until his great plan had been undone by the mishandling of his access card.

"Dammit," he muttered. He knew he could move in certain directions—vertical directions, up and down, with both feet planted below him. He was working on lateral, but crouching was a whole different animal, and Jack thought it was one animal he wouldn't automatically love.

He glanced at his watch. He'd been gone from his bed for ten minutes, and should a masochistic nurse decide to check in on him, she'd find the colonel gone, and Jack would be forced back to the infirmary.

Should that be the case, he had a new and creative inventory of profanities which to hurl.

It was only pain, he thought, and he could do pain. Crouch. Pick the thin piece of plastic up off the ground. Just hang on tight to both crutches in one hand. Totally doable.

Or not.

Maybe if he just waited long enough the elevator doors would open, he could pretend to bump into one of the occupants and blame the mishap on him or her. Indignant, Jack would make sure that person knew their rank, and in their embarrassment would pick the card up for the colonel, then hope they wouldn't be disciplined by the ranking officer for being so klutzy.

It was a plan. It wasn't quite the burning of Atlanta, but it had its moments.

So he waited. And he looked at his watch.

"Screw it," he said, arranged both crutches in his left hand, and began to crouch.

"Hey, Jack," Daniel said.

"A passing airman bumped me!" Jack stated, pulling his body back up. He threw the crutch under his right armpit and faced Daniel. "Makes me so damn mad."

"And you dropped your card?" Daniel asked, eyeing Jack sidelong.

"Can you believe it? I don't like to name names, but the weenie didn't even have the decency to pick it up!" Jack pinched his eyes down and searched Daniel's face for any signs that his story was not being accepted.

"Really? Oh, that's…that's really…Just happened, did you say?" Daniel asked, thumbing the parcel of folders in his arms.

"Not more than fifteen seconds ago."

"Because," Daniel said, looking down both sides of the hallway, "I didn't see anyone when I walked up."

"Okay," Jack said, revising his story, "so, it was a minute ago. That's really not the point, is it?"

"No, I suppose it's not," Daniel agreed, pushing his glasses up. "The point is…what?"

"That my access card was carelessly bumped from my hand!" Jack said, pointing at it.

"Yes, I can see that." Daniel stared at Jack, wondering what he was missing. Jack stared back, occasionally letting his focus drop to the card. Finally, the implicit and the explicit met in Daniel's head.

"Say, Jack, would you like me to pick that up for you?" he asked, his voice riddled with condescension.

"It's really not your responsibility, Daniel."

Daniel nodded, rested his chin on the top of his files. "I see what you mean."

"People just don't take responsibility for their own actions anymore, have you noticed?" Jack said.

"I couldn't agree more," he said, hardly able to look Jack in the eye. He really didn't want to laugh at the man, not now. Later, definitely, but now?

"I'd pick it up myself," Jack began.

"But there's the principle of the thing," Daniel continued.

"Exactly!"

Both men breathed in deeply, satisfied with their haughty superiority, feigned as it may be.

"So," Jack said.

"So, why don't I…"

"Yeah, I'd appreciate that," Jack said, and in an instant, the card was back in his hand. "Hey, Daniel, how about a ride on an elevator?"

"I hadn't thought about it, but sure."

Jack swiped his card through the reader, the doors opened, and he and Daniel piled in.

"What floor?" Jack asked.

"Twelve," Daniel said, lightly giving his folders a shake to straighten them. "Where are you going?"

Jack paused just long enough to give rise to the fact that he was AWOL. "Yeah, twelve sounds as good as any place."

"Bustin' out, are ya?" Daniel asked, leaning against the compartment wall while the elevator made its ascent.

"You could say that," Jack said, keeping his attention toward the number panel. With the shutting of the double doors, Jack hoped the topic would also close.

Daniel, sensing that Jack had no intention of furthering his story, decided he'd plow into another taboo subject. In preparation, he screwed up his face, cleared his throat and threw caution to the wind.

"So, Sam and I were wondering—"

"Daniel," he interjected with haste and indignation, "if this is about the last mission—"

"Well, it's just that—"

"What? It's just what?"

Daniel paused, showed Jack that the loud voice and browbeating really had no affect on him, and began again. "It's just that we were wondering if, in your estimation, any of the inhabitants under the ground had any resemblance to the ones you saw on P5…something, or other."

Jack stood back, adopted a casual, thoughtful look, and answered back. "Well, that depends."

Daniel's eyes fluttered. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Oh, yeah? On what?"

"On what the hell you're talking about, Daniel!"

Browbeating had no affect on him, but the sarcasm continued to set his nerves on edge. "What I'm talking about is the planet that you, Sam, Teal'c and Jonas Quinn visited."

"We visited a lot of planets. Could ya maybe be more specific?" Jack added, knowing full well Daniel hated his derisive attitude. Jack knew exactly what set people off, drove them away, and using those things against the people around him was his primary objective of late. Daniel just happened to be the target of the moment. Jack also knew he wasn't going to get off on the same floor with Daniel, not anymore. He tapped the number eleven.

Daniel maintained his unflinching lock on Jack's slatted eyes, reminding Jack that no matter how impossible he was Daniel would, in the long run, get the information he was looking for. "It was the planet where you encountered Nirrti's experiments."

"What about it?" Jack asked, turning away from Daniel, feeling a sudden urge to sit down.

Daniel ground his teeth together and tried again. "On that planet, the aliens that you met, did they in any way resemble the aliens you…became acquainted with on our last mission?"

"I know what this is about," Jack said, his voice soft and level.

"Okay," he said, cautious and rather dubious that Jack knew what he was getting at. Daniel glanced obliquely at Jack from the corner of the elevator. "What is this about?"

"It's about you trying to make up for lost time."

The folders in Daniel's arms slipped, but he caught them before they hit the ground. "It's…it's about what?"

"Daniel, what's done is done. You made the choice to leave," Jack told him, counting down the floors.

"I…I…" Daniel stammered.

"Trying to solve the riddles of past missions you weren't a part of isn't going to change anything." One more floor to go, and Jack would be free.

"That's not what I'm trying to do, Jack," Daniel defensively said, stepping closer to the front of the lift, glaring at the side of Jack's face.

"Jonas took care of things when you were gone. You'll just have to accept that." The elevator bobbled to a stop, and for a brief, tense moment, Jack thought Daniel might just strike him.

"You…you…" Daniel's face bloomed with anger and umbrage. "You're a piece of work, Jack."

The elevator doors glided open and the wall in front of them showed they had reached Daniel's floor. "Nice talking with you, Daniel. Let's do this again, real soon."

Daniel smirked, let out a bitter laugh, and continued to eye Jack with well-placed resentment. "Yeah, I'll try to make time in my schedule."

"Good!" Jack sarcastically called out, waving to him with one crutch while Daniel stepped out of the compartment.

Daniel faced Jack one last time before the doors closed, hoping the anger in his eyes hid the disappointment in his soul.

Jack punched the "door closed" button and steadfastly refused to look up at Daniel.

**Janet Fraiser flipped the pages of her quarterly report**, took a deep breath, and began to inform the general of the SGC's overall health.

"Like I said, by and large we've been able to contain the spread of influenza," she said, glancing up for a moment to see if the general's eye were any less glazed. She knew it wasn't his favorite responsibility, that of having to sit through quarterly reports from the CO's, but he usually carried on with them as if the information he was given was vital to the workings of the SGC. Sometimes her reports did have more weight than others.

Unfortunately, where her present report and where the general's attention were concerned, the last quarter had been relatively uneventful. Boring, even. Clinical in the most dry sense. There had been quarters when she had his rapt attention—usually having to deal with contagions of alien origins, or when an outbreak of microbial infections had filled her infirmary with an overflow of patients. However, when the most grave information was the statistic dealing with the flu, Janet had the feeling she could have emailed the general and saved them both the aggravation.

That being said, it was the Air Force, and there were protocols and time-honored orders to follow, and so she whisked back her hair and carried on with her report.

"There were only the six reported cases of influenza, all of which were from personnel who had taken the vaccine, but were immune to it for one of any number of reasons."

"Is that consistent with the national average, Doctor?" General Hammond asked, sitting back in his chair.

"It's within the parameters, yes. Because we take greater precautions than the vast majority of the nation against air-borne diseases, such as influenza, our numbers are slightly skewed, but unlike the general public, we are in much more confined quarters, thereby increasing the likelihood of the virus spreading." Gawd, she thought, it even sounds boring to me…

"Understood," the general said.

"Well, General," Janet sighed, closing her file, "I think that's everything."

"Things seem to be in order," General Hammond said, mirroring her actions. "Your expertise and support are greatly appreciated, Doctor. I hope you are aware of your value to this operation."

"I am, sir. Thank you, sir," Janet said. "Sir, if there's nothing more…"

"Actually," he said, lacing his fingers and dropping them into his lap, where his focus followed, "there is one more thing."

"Yes, sir?"

"It's about Colonel O'Neill."

Janet studied him carefully—he didn't often avoid her eyes. He rarely asked about individual patients. She knew her patient/physician confidentiality did not apply where the general's requests were concerned—after all, an airman is an airman, healthy or injured—but she could hardly remember the last time he crossed over that line and into her domain. When his face raised and he made eye contact with her, she saw a glimpse of the brooding trouble within his eyes. This was more than just a question about a certain colonel's health. This was a question loaded with ramifications.

"What can I tell you, General?" she quietly said, hoping not to broadcast her own concern.

General Hammond nodded his head and a pursed his lips. He pushed himself away from the table, rose to his feet and stepped to the briefing room door, which he closed.

"Without going into detail, Doctor, which I expect you'll understand," he said, returning to his seat.

"Yes, sir," she answered back.

"I am under a…certain amount of pressure to report to Washington on Colonel O'Neill's condition." General Hammond pulled his yellow legal paid out from under the blue-covered report Janet had given him. On it he had written three questions, each of which was followed by open space. It was with resigned acrimony that he began his questionnaire. "Doctor Fraiser, are Colonel O'Neill's injuries such that he will be unable to return to the field?"

"No, sir. They're not." Her pulse began to quicken, and her skin began to warm. She'd heard these questions before for other officers the Air Force was forcing out of active duty. She never thought she'd have to be answering them about Jack O'Neill. "His concussion, although significant, has healed quite well. His latest CAT scan was clear."

The general nodded approvingly. "Very good."

"The fracture to his pelvis is healing. However," she said, and paused. How could she couch the subject in order to shed the best light on the situation? "However," she went on, "I don't believe he'll be ready for active duty for at least six to eight more weeks."

"That long?" the general asked.

"It was a fracture, sir, and as such I'm not willing to rush his recovery."

"Fine." The general wrote some perfunctory notes, and when he was finished, he laid down his pen and asked the second question. "In your professional opinion, will there be any lasting effects from this latest round of injuries? I'm asking about any emotional difficulties that may occur because of his injuries, as well."

Janet could feel her cheeks begin to redden. She was an officer, and being an officer was under a strict code of ethics. She could not, under any circumstance, lie to the general about Jack's condition, but if she told her CO what she felt in her heart to be true, it would destroy the colonel's career.

"Doctor?" the general prodded.

"Colonel O'Neill has a remarkable ability to recover from his injuries. All his injuries," she said, hoping there would be no follow-up questions.

"So…"

"So, I have every reason to believe that this too shall pass, where the colonel's concerned," she implied.

"I hope you're right," the general answered back, reading perfectly well the message within the message. "I only have one more question."

"Certainly, sir," Janet said.

"Could you, in full knowledge of the mental and physical rigors involved in leading an away-team, recommend that Colonel O'Neill be put back in command of SG-1, after the six to eight weeks needed to complete his recovery?"

Her heart leapt into her throat. Her fingers strangled her pen. She hated him for asking the question—loaded and explosive. She hated that he was under enough pressure to have to ask her to put her professionalism on the line to answer the question. She hated that she would have to rely on duplicity to answer it.

"Sir, with all due respect, I won't know the answer to that until those six to eight weeks are up." Janet never let her focus waver while she said the words. She wanted it to be very clear to the general that even though she understood her place and his pressures, she wouldn't be a party to such obvious railroading.

General Hammond capped his pen, tossed it onto the paper, and sat back in his chair. The time for vagaries and political maneuvering needed to come to an end. He understood "need to know" policy better than most, but he also understood loyalty above all else. He had a duty and a responsibility to his superiors, few as they were, but he had a duty to his men, as well. The two buffeted his conscience, and his only recourse was to do the unthinkable—breech protocol and let his CMO know what was happening.

"Doctor, what I have to tell you can go no farther than this room," he said, and the second the words left his mouth, the more bitter the on-deck words tasted. "There is a movement to offer Colonel O'Neill a promotion to brigadier general."

The statement left her totally speechless. Here she had been thinking they were forcing Jack out, and all the while they were trying to promote him? Janet shook her head, cleared her throat and tried to speak.

"I'm sorry. I guess this is rather a shock," she managed to say.

"It was to me, too," the general said.

"Forgive me for asking, sir, but does that mean the Pentagon has finally decided to make the beta-site a fully-operational base?"

"Unfortunately, that is not what it means," he tried to tell her.

"Then, Colonel O'Neill would be reassigned to…" Her questions, unformulated and incomprehensible, swirled through her mind. "Sir, in order for a promotion to occur, there has to be an opening somewhere in the ranks for a brigadier general. Unless I'm unaware of any resignations, I don't believe the Air Force has any openings at this time."

"There would be a new position created for Colonel O'Neill," the general said.

"A new position," she repeated, and it started to be incrementally clearer to her. "This new position—it wouldn't be in the SGC, would it?"

"No, Doctor, it would not."

Her heart became leaden, her arms suddenly felt numb. Janet pursed her lips, straightened her spine, and gathered up as much stoicism as she could muster. "Does the colonel know?"

"Not yet."

She raised an eyebrow, in lieu of a more dramatic, destructive action. "He's not going to like it."

"He may not have a choice."

She remained stiff-backed and tenacious in her resentment, just as the general remained seated, powerless to stop the machinations of it all.

"Sir, could you ask me those questions again?" she said, her tone brittle.

"No, I'm afraid I can't."

"But, sir—"

"I don't really think anything you say can change the future, Doctor." General Hammond flipped over the pages of his writing pad and gathered his papers in a pile. "But as the colonel's physician, I thought you should know. I need to discuss the matter with him soon, and I'd like you to be aware of the situation beforehand."

"I appreciate that, sir," she said.

The general pushed himself out of his chair, picked up his papers and gave pause to his thoughts.

"I've been in this uniform for close to forty years, and this is the first time I've ever felt like it wasn't an honor to wear it."

With a tear cresting in her eye, Janet held her breath and watched the general quietly leave the room.

**Sam sliced her cubes of blue Jell-o**, Teal'c chewed his Swiss steak, and Daniel constructed walls out of his mashed potatoes. Occasionally, one of them would acknowledge a passing colleague.

"He said that," Sam reiterated, still shocked by Daniel's conversation with the colonel.

"Yes, he did," Daniel said.

"And you're sure you—"

"No, Sam," Daniel said, before she could suggest anything more. And in fact, Daniel knew she might just question him like this. It seemed, to Daniel, that she was second-guessing him all the time. Questioning his motives, his actions, and, frankly, Daniel was sick of it. Especially since this time he knew he hadn't pushed any of Jack's buttons. Jack hadn't given him time to do so. "No, I didn't set him off in any way, other than I asked him about the aliens from that planet you encountered." Daniel dropped his fork onto his plate with a loud clang. He pushed his tray to the side and planted his elbows into the table. Both hands reached up under his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes.

"But before that he seemed—"

"Fine," he said, rather brusquely, even to his own ears. He decided to try again. "He seemed fine."

"He is not fine."

Sam and Daniel turned in unison to Teal'c, who, up until that moment, had remained silent.

"In fact," Teal'c continued, weaving his fingers together, "Colonel O'Neill's soul is vexed."

Daniel looked at Sam; Sam looked at Daniel. After a moment, Daniel held up one finger, and said, "Um, exactly when did Jack become a gladiator?"

"Daniel," Sam interrupted, incredulous. "Exactly when did you become such a smart ass?"

"This is something I've just become, Sam?" Daniel asked, eyeing her with great irritation and sarcasm.

"No, but lately it seems worse," she countered, turning fully toward him.

"Lately?"

"Yes, lately."

"Since when?"

"Since," she hedged, "since you came back."

"Oh, really."

"Yes, really!"

"And you think it has something to do with me descending," he said, becoming agitated by her innuendos.

"I don't know," she said, leaning toward him. "Seems that way to me."

"Well, why don't I refer to my book—Recently Descended Beings for Dummies," he crowed. "Maybe there's a chapter on side effects!"

"Maybe you should!"

"Major Carter! DanielJackson!" Teal'c bellowed, gaining their immediate and startled attention. "This behavior is neither productive nor beneficial."

The two stopped, the wind summarily taken out of their sails. And yet a residue of hurt and resentment hovered between them. Daniel was the first to break the stubbornly held staring contest. He swiped a finger under his nose, cleared his throat, and said, "You're right, Teal'c. I'm sorry. I think I'm just a little…"

"Yeah," Sam said, taking over for Daniel. "I think we're all a little…"

"Tired," Daniel added.

"Concerned," Sam furthered.

"As am I," Teal'c said.

They sat there, the remaining three, trying to spool their emotions back to order. Finally, Daniel said, "So, um…vexed."

"In the extreme," Teal'c qualified.

They all knew it. Sam hadn't wanted to believe it, but she knew it. "Okay," she said, "so, how can we help?"

"By allowing O'Neill the time to find peace." Teal'c pushed his plate away from him, wove his fingers together and allowed the information to settle in their thoughts.

"Meaning we need to leave him alone," Sam said.

"He must be allowed to look inside himself in order to find that peace," Teal'c told her, choosing to ignore the smirk on Daniel's face. "His heart, if I am using the Tau'ri representation of the spirit correctly, is being weighed down. Only he can lift that encumbrance."

"Yeah, okay, but there are questions that need to be answered," Daniel said, truly not interested in encumbrances or Tau'ri representations for anything. "Jack would be the first to understand that."

"And you shall have your answers," Teal'c stated, "in time."

"Okay, so—what?—a few days? A week? Can you be a little more specific?" Daniel asked, gesticulating with stiff movements.

"It is said that even the most storm-crashed sea calms quickly, but only when the storm has died," Teal'c said.

"It's also said confession is good for the soul, Teal'c," Daniel said, winking for good measure, lest the sarcasm in his voice not adequately display his disdain.

Teal'c stared at the space between his two friends, tired of the prattle. "There is a storm in his soul, and we must no longer supply the winds."

"Yeah, see," Sam added, grimacing, "I'm more inclined to think the colonel needs to get it off his chest. I'm not talking about cornering him and demanding he talk to us. I'm talking about the three of us going to see him, sitting down with him, offering our support."

"It is not what is needed."

"Well, he certainly doesn't need to be left alone," Daniel said, waving his hands through the air, underscoring his frustration. "How will it look if we we we just…let him carry on like this? Won't that send the message that…that there's something out there that we don't understand, and because one of us was injured, we shouldn't continue the investigation? I mean, just think about the message that sends to—oh, I don't know-Washington?"

"I don't think that's what Teal'c was saying, Daniel," Sam said, pivoting her body toward him.

"I am merely suggesting that during this time of convalescence, O'Neill should be allowed to completely heal," Teal'c said.

"Yeah, well," Daniel said, smacking his lips, arching his brow, "I think you're wrong. I'm all for letting Jack heal, but I refuse to believe he'd be better off wallowing in his misery." He rose to his feet, gathered his plates and cups on his tray, and chose his final words. "I agree Jack needs to find peace, but I think the only way to do that is for Jack to face whatever demons are bothering him."

"There are no demons involved, DanielJackson," Teal'c informed him.

Daniel shook his head, sighed, and said, "Well then, whatever." He lifted his tray, resolute that his was the best course of action, and to that end he told Teal'c and Sam that he was going to find Jack, pretend that the elevator incident never happened, and indeed help him find his peace. On Daniel's terms.

In his wake, Sam stared at Teal'c, mystified by Daniel's recent behavior—erratic and shortsighted.

"I believe DanielJackson is also burdened, Major Carter," Teal'c said.

"I'd like to take him out back and ease him of that burden, Teal'c," she said, gripping her hands together. "I gotta tell ya, Teal'c, his attitude is starting to grate on my last nerve."

"His attitude, as you say, is merely a symptom of his own burden," Teal'c said.

Sam chortled, shook her head and gathered up her tray. "Yeah, well, everybody's burdened in one way or another. When's it gonna be my turn?"

Watching Sam leave, trailing behind her such bitterness, Teal'c reminded himself that at thirty-seven years old, Major Carter was still very young.

**Jack had always prided himself on being a quick study**, even if Carter thought it might never make sense to him how each and every molecule found its way back in place when they exited the wormhole. Wasn't it possible, he theorized, that one day he'd step into the event horizon your basic, ordinary man, and when he got to the other side, his knees bent the wrong way, or his navel turned up on his forehead? For her part, Carter would only say, "Possible, not probable. But tell me if you feel the need to chew gum with your toes, sir."

Jack was fairly sure Carter was making fun of him, but just to be safe he discontinued carrying gum in his jacket. Probably one of those things he didn't want to know about. And Carter was probably kidding. He hoped.

Yes, there were things worth learning, in which case he learned them quickly, and things not worth learning, in which case he didn't.

Learning not to do a flip turn at the end of the pool with a crack in your pelvis was well worth learning.

In fact, any kind of turning was something of which Jack thought he might stay clear, at least for the time being.

Still, it was nice being able to get out of the SGC, even if it meant doing laps in the Air Force Academy pool. His physical therapist called it aquatic therapy and used such terms as buoyancy assistive and resistive, decrease in compression, vibration and torsion forces. Something called a hydrotone belt came into the conversation, and that's where Jack stopped being even remotely interested.

"Listen," he had told the young officer, "if you want me to swim, I'll swim. I'll make like a fish, and be one with the water, but don't ask me to accessorize."

So Jack did just that. Everyday for ten days, Jack hobbled into the pool and made like a fish. He swam one lap after another, varying his strokes, just like he promised he would, but never once wearing any flotation device.

And all the while he thought that no self-respecting Minnesotan would ever consider a chlorinated swimming pool a good use of water. Clear, fish-filled and preferably free of pesky vacationers, yes, that was a good use of water. Frozen, lacking any fissures, and with a whole village of ice fishing shanties within sight of the goal—another very good use of water. But a 25-meter rectangle with plastic lane markers was not, by any definition, a good use of water.

Unless it meant Jack could get back to being an upright member of society faster. There he could almost see the value. Almost.

But the whole flip-turn issue at the end of a lap? Not so much.

Still, Jack had to admit he appreciated the quiet. Rank had some privileges, and being able to use the pool alone was one of them. No SGC personnel to pester him; no physical therapist to tell him how well he was doing; no short, Napoleonic doctors to remind him to take it easy; no eyes to look at him; no fears to address. No need to think. Just swim. Grasp hold of the kick board. Kick and breathe. Don't think. Get to the end, turn around. Keep kicking. Eyes straight ahead. Clear your thoughts. Breathe. Kick. Quiet.

"Hey, Jack."

Jack flinched, muttered a few wet epithets, but kept kicking.

"Janet said you'd be here."

Eyes straight ahead. Come to the end, and turn around.

"How many laps have you done so far?"

Switch from scissor kick to frog kick. Much slower and hurts like hell, but still going forward. Breathe…

"You, uh, you wearin' earplugs by chance?"

Much slower. Too slow. And too painful. Switch to backstroke, and hope when the thrown kickboard sails through the air, it will peg Daniel.

"Hey!" Daniel said, jumping out of the way of the flying piece of foam. He shoved his hands in his pockets and frowned. "You can hear me, can't you?"

Something about the backstroke that makes the world go away. Oh, right—ears underwater. Good stroke…

"Well, I'm just going to talk, since I know you can hear me," Daniel said, following alongside Jack on the pool's deck. "Sam and I were thinking about our last mission. We think we know what happened, or…not. That is to say we think there may be a reason for us to go back."

Look for the flags draped across the 5-meter mark. Watch for the ladder out of the corner of the eye just before the wall. Touch the wall, turn, but don't push off too hard.

"See, Sam and I think there were two different kinds of people…well, the term being relative and all, nonetheless, there might have been another race on the planet, one that was capable of of of generating a stasis chamber. I mean, it was obvious that the race we met wasn't capable of that, so it just stands to reason that there had to be someone else, or many others, for that matter, on that planet. Nice goggles, by the way. Those standard Air Force issue?"

Breathe. Focus on the ceiling. Reach back. Kick. Think of something peaceful. Think of a different stroke. Think of one that will block out that annoying voice.

"Anyhow, we think Nirrti has something to do with the differences between the races," Daniel said, watching Jack turn over in the water and begin the front crawl. "I mean, it's just a hunch at this point, but it's a pretty good one, and unless we go back there, we'll never know." Daniel swiped his forehead and pushed his glasses up on top of his head. "How warm is that water? It's a steam bath in here." He continued to pace alongside Jack. Noticing that Jack was ten meters from the end, Daniel turned the corner of the pool and decided to wait for him, hoping he'd make eye contact when Jack hit the wall. Daniel hiked up the front of his pants and crouched down in front of the lane. "I know you said you didn't think we should go back, but Sam and I both think there's a lot there to learn."

Two meters from the wall. Touch and turn, or flip turn? To hell with the pain. Flip turn it is. Okay, here we go. Big breath, and…

Jack's legs slapped against the surface, and a wall of water crashed into Daniel. He threw up his arms as if that would stop the water, lost his balance and plunked down onto the wet tile. Dripping wet, his arms thrust out to the side, Daniel blinked the water out of his eyes, while Jack glided below the surface, his hip burning with pain, his mouth turned up in a satisfied smirk.

"Yeah, the water…yeah, it feels pretty nice," Daniel called out, shaking his arms, airing out his jacket. "Thanks very much there, Jack."

Kick. Don't laugh. Could choke. Kick. Ouch…

Daniel stood up, drenched, rubbed his hair free of excess moisture, and watched Jack cruise down the lane. "I guess I'll take that as you'd rather talk about this another time," he yelled down the lane. When Jack continued to swim and not respond to Daniel, Daniel shook out his hands one more time and moved to the exit. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

In a conciliatory move, Jack raised one hand and waved to Daniel.

And kept moving. Away from Daniel's concerns. Away from pain. Away from care. Away from fear.

**If truth be told, Jack was never more grateful **than right at that moment for the bulletproof glass that separated him from the embarkation room. He was indignantly grateful for the protection.

There was a time when Jack could stand at the window overlooking the gate room and know with absolute clarity that come hell or high water (either one fairly easy to achieve in the dregs of a missile silo…) he'd protect the place. Sometimes it only took a well-placed sarcastic remark, and other times it took a nuke. Either way, his actions were effective.

Anymore, however, nothing seemed very effective. The way he saw it, since returning from that miserable little planet, his efficacy was downright embarrassing. Hell, he couldn't even bend over to pick up his morning paper. He'd had to tell himself over and over to hold it together, but there was this weight, a tightness in his chest. He had hoped it would go away once he was out of the infirmary, where the eyes of the entire SGC seemed to be looking in on him 24/7, but it didn't. No matter where he went, it stayed with him. He'd close his eyes, and all he could see were those hundreds of pairs of pin dots, staring at him. They could see it, he was sure. They still could see it.

Strange memories haunted him, thrown up against a cruel screen in his mind. Mere moments in a life that any other time would have been categorized as trivial. One in particular, and Jack resented its insinuation, resented his own mind for having dredged it out. He had been brushing his teeth one late night, having arrived home after Sarah and Charlie had gone to sleep. He was trying to be quiet, he didn't want to disturb them, but when he finished, when he had turned from the sink, Charlie was standing in the doorway, silent as a ghost. Jack gasped.

"I'm sad about something, but I don't know what it is," Charlie had said, his chin quivering, his eyes wet and round as saucers.

Jack didn't really deal with those things, kind of hoped Sarah would have heard their son and taken over, but when Jack glanced over the top of Charlie's head and down the hall to their bedroom, he saw that his wife was out for the night.

"Um, okay," Jack whispered, crouching down in front of his son. He wrapped his hands around Charlie's thin upper arms. "What are you sad about, champ?"

"I just told you. I don't know," Charlie said, winding his arms around his dad's neck, pressing his eyes into his dad's warm neck.

Jack enveloped him with his entire body and had no idea what to say or what to do. "Well, are you worried about something at school? Huh?"

But Charlie was finished trying to explain the unexplainable. He choked Jack's neck in his arms and sobbed.

Why Jack had to remember that moment, he'd never know. It had to have happened ten years prior, and not once had he ever thought about it, until recently.

"Hold it together," he reminded himself, massaging his eyes.

However, he could either hold onto his stoicism, or he could hold onto his cane. He couldn't do both, and maintaining his stoicism wasn't going to keep him upright, so…

He strangled the grip of his cane. His knuckles white around it. Children and old men could afford moments of ambiguity, not officers. He was an officer, a hardened, career soldier. There just wasn't room for self-doubt.

His father had taught him to be a leader of men; the Air Force had taught him to be a soldier; his mother had taught him to be a smart-ass—he was the perfect triple threat. He was forty when they made him a colonel; forty-five when he had his third knee surgery. Even so, he had led his team—led all the teams, with or without a knee brace—with bravado and growling doggedness. He'd faced system lords, crooked politicians, treasonous soldiers and humorless scientists—faced them all, and reduced them with nothing but a P-90 and a smirk. No, there was no room for weakness.

Seven years he had watched over the gate room as the CO of SG1, and not once did he ever doubt his tenacity. Well, he doubted it now. And holding a cane in your hand precluded any vibe that you were in any way a threat. Not to anyone out there, that is. Fifty was shuffling up his walkway, holding a bouquet of laxatives and a box of bifocals, and it wasn't going to leave until Jack opened the door.

And all Jack could think to do was rush up to the nearest person and say, "I'm scared about something but I don't know what it is."

"Jack."

He spun his head around too quickly and felt a twinge go down through his back. "Sir?"

"It's good to see you back on your feet," General Hammond said.

"Yes, sir," Jack said, frowning. "My feet are glad to see me…back, too."

General Hammond chuckled. He surely did enjoy the man. He was going to miss him, and with that thought, General Hammond lost all feel for the humorous. "Jack, do you have a minute?"

Jack eyed the general carefully before saying, "Yes, sir." The general set the pace back to his office, relaxed and at ease, as if he always checked for dust on the credenza.

"Have a seat, Colonel," the senior officer said, motioning toward the chair across from him. He watched his usually spry 2IC slowly lower himself into the chair, and General Hammond tried hard not to wince in sympathy for Jack. "You look like you're doing well. I suppose it could have been much worse." Jack bobbed his head noncommittally, and the general went on. "That ol' Irish luck of yours, huh?"

"Yes, sir," Jack said, all the while silently berating his heritage for its decided lack of good fortune.

"Jack," the general said, resting his elbows on his desk, his hands clasped together, "Washington has plans for you."

"Washington, sir? As in George, or the Redskins?" Jack asked, buying time in a conversation he knew he didn't want to be a part of. When the general chuckled again at Jack's lame joke, Jack knew the information was going to be worse than expected.

"There are plans in the works to promote you, Colonel."

"I think I'd rather be a place kicker." There it was, the constant, brooding aura. It was a scared feeling, one that doesn't quite take hold, but it's hovering there, just beneath the surface. One of being watched, of imminent doom. If I hold still, don't react, maybe the fear won't take root.

"How do feel about brigadier general?" General Hammond paused a moment to let the message sink in, also to get a better read on how Jack was going to take it. When he was met by impassivity, the general continued. "There's a new position opening up in the Pentagon for an officer, just like yourself, who knows the ins and outs of this program. You'd be the administrator of the SGC, working in alliance with the oversight committee—"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Jack finally interjected, seething with resentment, while a distant part of him was grateful that anger had taken precedence over the bone-numbing trepidation trying to tighten its grip on his soul. "They're promoting me to a desk jockey, and I don't think there's one person between here and DC who doesn't know just how much I hate paperwork, not to mention the oversight committee!"

"This is your chance to make some changes, Colonel, for the better," the general told Jack, with a quiet in his voice that bespoke his earnest commiseration.

Jack's foot began to bounce, his cheek fell to his awaiting hand, and his mind went blank with rage.

"You'll still be involved in the decision making process of the SGC, Jack. You'll still be a part of our continuing mission."

Jack could taste blood in his mouth. Bile. Iron. Swamp gas. This wasn't the way it supposed to happen.

"So, that's it. I'm a general. Just like that."

"Well, no. Not just like that."

"Do I have a say in this, sir?" Jack asked, not able to look his CO in the eye, lest he see the white-hot anger, the inextinguishable…inextinguishable—what was it, he wondered.

"Jack, you passed your officer's exam years ago," the general said, fully knowing he was adding insult to injury. "You had a say at that time."

"So, I'm out."

"Well, not quite, but…"

"May I speak freely, sir?"

"By all means."

"This bites."

"Yes, it does."

"It bites, sucks, blows, stinks, and pretty much eats it."

"I couldn't agree more."

What could he do but shake his head and feel like he had just been put out to pasture, but not before they had castrated him? A career soldier works all his life for advancement, but all Jack could see on his tombstone was "General Jack O'Neill. Old soldiers never die. They just get reassigned to the Pentagon." What was it that crushed his spirit? Inextinguishable sadness.

Old men and little boys. He wasn't a little boy anymore, which left only one choice. He was out. His field days were over, and if they had asked him, Jack would have been hard pressed at that moment to argue.

The eyes had known what they were looking at.

"Permission to get the hell out of your office, sir," Jack said, grinding out each word like a rusty chain over corroded gears.

"Certainly."

Surprised by the quickness in Jack's step, the general thought that maybe there is grace in anger. It seemed to override physical pain.

**"See, this is what I'm talking about,"** Daniel said, swinging into Sam's lab uninvited, his vision focused on the opened notebook in his hands. He didn't notice when Sam visibly jumped, startled by his sudden appearance, or if he had, he didn't think it was more important than what was in the journal.

"Hey, Daniel," Sam said, her hand to her chest, able to feel her heart pounding against it. "You scared me."

Daniel glanced up for a brief moment and then back down. "Oh. So, this is what I was trying to explain to you, about Jonas' notes."

"That's it," she said, turning from her computer, ready to take on Daniel's misplaced obsession here and now. "Daniel, I think we need to discuss your motivation."

Daniel spun the book around for Sam to see the sketches. "Isn't this what we saw on P57-263?"

Sam closed the book, and said, "264. Daniel. We need to talk."

Daniel squinted to look more closely at her, wondering what he had missed. "That's what I'm trying to do, Sam."

"No, not about the mission. About your… fixation with it."

"I'm sorry?" he said.

Sam swallowed hard and readied herself to hit Daniel with the truth. "The more I think about it, the more I agree with Teal'c. I think we should leave it alone."

"Leave what alone?"

Her eyes widened at Daniel's stubborn single-mindedness, and she shrugged. "Trying to get back there. Trying to find answers to questions that no one is asking but you. Does any of this sound familiar?"

"I've made a career out of asking those questions," he said, defending himself. "It seems to me we've made a lot of progress because I've been asking those questions."

"Yeah, but…maybe not this time. I gotta wonder if this time you're asking them for a different reason." Oh, boy, did she know that look of his—mouth opened wide, eyebrows practically at his hairline, his eyes opening and closing slowly. Oh, yeah. Here it comes…

"So, you're saying that I'm…somehow sublimating my inadequacies by doing exhaustive research? Is that it?" he asked, crushing the notebook to his chest.

"Well, that's not what I was going to say, but," she said, "I definitely think there's some kind of transference going on."

"So, so, so, let me get this straight," Daniel said, beginning an angry stroll around her lab, his words rattling off his tongue like a howitzer. "My motivation here, in your opinion, isn't about figuring out what happened to Jack, but about trying to outsmart Jonas."

"Um, no," Sam said, eyeing him sidelong, with great incredulity.

"But in a nutshell, that's pretty much what you're saying."

"Did I mention Jonas? Did I, at any point, mention that I thought you were feeling inadequate?" she demanded of him, cutting him off at the far corner of her lab table.

"Well, I suppose I was just reading between the lines, as it were. Coming to my own conclusions." He cocked his head to the side and glared at her. "Why should you be the only one who can practice the art of conjecture?"

"Okay, look," she said, her hands up between them. "That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what are you saying?"

"It's…have you really sat down and asked yourself why you feel it's so important to go back there?"

"Yes," he said, in that sarcastic way that made the nerves in Sam's neck stand on end. "And I thought you agreed with me on the point. It's important, Sam, to find out who these people are and how we can help them."

Sam closed her eyes, stung by the words. "How we can help them? Whoa, I thought the point was to help the colonel."

Daniel bobbled a minute, and said, "Yeah, him, too."

"Daniel," she said, smiling gently but brooking no false empathy, "I think you want to go back there for reasons other than helping the colonel. I'm not really sure you've honestly thought this through."

Daniel considered that a moment, nodded his head, and said, "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well, let me tell you what I'm thinking right now."

Sam's spine became an unyielding pole of indignation, and she stared him down, saying, "Maybe you need to rethink that, as well."

"Maybe you're right."

When the door behind him slammed, Sam shook her head and laughed, a sound that was anything but humored.

**A paper pusher.** A relic. Is that what his career had come to?

He'd heard once that in Japan they take workers who don't meet up to standards and give them a desk with nothing to do until they quit. Spares the executives the untidy business of actually having to fire anyone.

That's what Jack felt like was happening to him: He was going to be sent off to DC, where he would turn to dust in some cubicle, just like all those artifacts they sent off to God knows where. He was going to be holed up behind a partition, and the only action he'd see would be the daily threat of a paper cut.

Then again, maybe that would be too much.

How long did he have to call this office his own? How long would it be before they stripped him of his command? How long ago had he seen this coming?

The eyes saw it. They saw everything.

His head drooped forward, as if the weight of his troubles made it impossible for him to hold it up. He had to remind himself to breathe. He was probably close to blacking out, he thought, but he couldn't change his position, and he couldn't begin to think of how to stop it.

A lifetime of service to his country, and suddenly he was obsolete. Useless. Finally, someone realized he was as old as he felt, and finally, someone was putting an end to the charade. And it was a charade. Two years ago, he would have heard his kidnappers. Two years ago, no one would have caught him literally with his pants down. Two years ago, he should have retired.

It was pride that kept him in a young officer's position. Pride that fueled his grandiosity. Well, his tanks were empty, and his pride was another useless commodity.

"Jack," Daniel said, rapping at Jack's door, not stopping to see if he'd be given permission to enter.

"Not now, Daniel."

"Now just hear me out," Daniel began, placing the journal on Jack's desk.

"Daniel, this isn't a good time."

"No, I'm sure it's not," Daniel said, sliding his glasses onto his head, disregarding Jack's mood. "Look, I've been reading over these notes, and I—"

If Daniel wasn't going to leave, and years of experience told him that was a distinct possibility, then Jack was going to leave. Either way, he had no intention of listening to Daniel. "Daniel, I don't want to hear it," Jack said, leveraging his body out of his chair.

"Yes, so you've said." Daniel grabbed the journal and began to follow Jack. "I think this is important enough that you might just be interested."

Jack hobbled across his office to the door, where, out of breath, he rested momentarily against the casing. A volcanic pressure brewed in his gut. "Daniel, dammit, I said I didn't want to talk about it. Got it?"

"No, Jack. You've been blowing me off for weeks now. This can't wait."

He could feel the strain beginning to build, nearing a point when he wouldn't be able to contain its fury. A sheen of sweat dotted his skin, and his vision began to gray. "I swear to God, Daniel—"

"Just do me a favor and look at this," Daniel insisted, opening the journal to the same page he had tried to show Sam. "Are these or are they not—"

"Daniel—"

"—the aliens who—"

Jack fisted a handful of hair and pulled hard. His ears roared with the dangerous surge of his blood pressure. He wanted to scream, to run, to hide.

"—abducted you?"

"Daniel, I swear…"

"If you would just look—"

Jack stretched tight the skin across his forehead, his head that was about to explode.

"—at these pictures, then—"

Jack spun around and connected with Daniel's jaw, sending his glasses flying across the room. Daniel's legs wobbled, he stumbled back.

"Jesus, Jack," Daniel muttered, reaching out to grab hold of any stationary item. "I just—"

A crack, and the office went black for a second. Daniel found himself sitting on the floor, holding his jaw, completely speechless and utterly unable to recognize the man standing over him, shaking out his fist.

A current of panic, arcing and wild, shot through Jack's body. Had he just hit Daniel? Had he just assaulted one of his teammates?

"Oh, my God," he whispered, watching a trail of blood dribble down his friend's chin.

"You son of a bitch," Daniel said, glaring up at Jack, with eyes full of shock, anger and betrayal. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, the pain taking full hold of his jaw. "You goddamn son of a bitch."

But Jack didn't stay long enough to hear it, not that he could hear. All sounds were drowned out by the roar of panic, the tumult of fear. He was out the door and down the hall before he could catch up to his careening thoughts. One hand against the cement walls, the other tacked to his throbbing hip, Jack hopped and limped a hectic pace to the general's office.

"'Scuse me, sir," Siler said, plastering himself against the opposite wall, watching Jack blindly chug by.

His air came in gulps, his heart smacked against his ribcage, forcing highly pressurized blood through narrowly constricted arteries. Temples throbbed, gut ached. Critical, critical, red zone and rising.

"Permission to take a leave of absence, sir!" Jack bellowed, practically tumbling into Hammond's office.

"Colonel, what in the hell—"

"Permission to take that leave effective immediately, sir!"

General Hammond looked the man up and down. Not ten minutes earlier the same man was in his office, angry but in control. Here he was again, panting, sweat dripping off his face, with an awful look of desperation in his black eyes. "Why don't we sit down, son, and—"

"No, sir! I can't do that, sir!" Trembling and ready to burst out in blood-curdling cries, Jack jammed the butt of his hand into his eye, and said, "Either give me permission to take some time, or I swear to God I'll resign right here. I'll…I'll walk out of this place, go AWOL. I swear to God, General, I'll…"

"How much time do you need?"

Jack stopped, swallowed hard. "Ah, God, I…I don't know."

"Permission granted."

And he was on his way out of the mountain.

**He and Jack had had some moments,** some tense moments, but it had never come to blows, not without one of them having been addicted to a sarcophagus or inoculated with a virus.

Okay, so they'd come to blows before, but not like this.

He looked at his face in the mirror, dabbed at the trail of blood tracing out of his mouth. He ran his finger along his bottom molars, and was pretty sure one of them was cracked. Maybe two. He turned on the water and washed the blood off his hand, spit more blood into the drain.

"Daniel? You in here?"

Daniel ripped three paper towels out of the dispenser, wiped his hands and folded one to press against his lip. "Men's bathroom, Sam."

"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind next time I have to go," she said, stepping into the echoing room. Sam sidled in next to Daniel and took a look at him in the mirror. "Let me see."

Daniel just stared at her, ill tempered and pitiful. When she turned to face him and to take the towel away, Daniel stepped back and allowed her a quick glimpse of his swollen and bloody lip. The left side of his jaw was puffy and already mottled with purple bruising. Sam sucked in air through her teeth and winced.

"You think anyone will notice?" Daniel asked, chuckling inappropriately. He looked at the bloodstained paper towel in his hand, threw it away and grabbed a new one.

"You need to go to the infirmary," she said, inspecting the rest of his face for bruises.

"Right. Good idea. 'So, Doctor Jackson, how'd this happen?' Oh, you know, Colonel O'Neill happened to be doing some shadow boxing, and I just happened to be a shadow. Twice." He slumped against the sink and could feel the blood pooling once again in his mouth. "Shit," he mumbled, turning around to spit. Sam averted her eyes.

"You could have a cracked jaw, Daniel. There could be damage to your sinuses." Sam tore one of the towels from the metal container and ran it under the water until it was as cold as she could make it. She held it to his lip while her other hand pressed against the back of his head. "You could have a concussion. You probably need stitches. You—"

"I pushed him, Sam. I pushed, and he punched," Daniel said, his enunciation becoming garbled.

"I know." His hand grasped her wrist and just held it. He couldn't quite meet her eye, and she knew from having taken a few hits herself how he must be shaking.

"I can't believe what just happened," he whispered, closing his eyes, the rush of adrenaline tapering off. His jaw pounded; his lip, too. There was an insistent ringing in his ears, and he was pretty sure he was going to have to sit down very soon.

"We'll talk about it in the infirmary," Sam said, her hand moving to his back to usher him out of the bathroom. "Daniel, I have to ask—I mean, it's my duty to ask. Do you wish to press charges against Colonel O'Neill?"

He thought about it a moment, paused on his way out of the lavatory. He shook his head, which was a really bad idea, and said, "Jack's a real son of a bitch for this, but…I don't want to…" Even if it did make his brain feel like it was sloshing up against his skull, he shook his head again. What more could he say?

"Okay. I understand." Sam pulled the door open and let Daniel pass by. "We'll just go see Janet and—"

"Sam," Daniel said, grabbing her arm, "I can't go to the infirmary because they'll make me file a report."

Sam wrestled with her options and had to agree. "Okay, so, we'll go back to your office and call Janet."

"Janet's an officer, Sam," Daniel reminded her. "She's going to want to know how it happened."

"Janet's also a friend," Sam reminded Daniel. She patted him on the back and began to walk. "We'll tell her I did it."

"Do you think she'll believe that?"

Sam smiled. "Oh, yeah. She'll believe that."

"DanielJackson, Sergeant Siler has just informed me that you were injured," Teal'c said, charging toward them.

"Wow, Siler sure does get around," Sam said.

"I'm fine, Teal'c." Daniel touched his tongue to the still bleeding gash in his lip.

Teal'c's gaze fell wholly on Daniel's eyes. "Did O'Neill cause you this harm?"

"Uh, yup." The last thing Daniel wanted was for another member of the SGC to come upon them and start asking questions, so he began to walk a little quicker.

"He meant you no harm, I am sure," Teal'c said.

"Yes, I suppose his hand just kind of darted out there of its own accord," Daniel said, smirking. "Twice, by the way. Not that I'm counting."

"If O'Neill were in his healthy mind, this would not have happened." An airman ambled by. Daniel pretended to scratch his cheek; Teal'c nodded a salutation.

"I'm not excusing him, Daniel, but the colonel would have never done this before." Sam noticed the flesh along his jaw line had begun to discolor. "Again, I'm not condoning his behavior, but the colonel hasn't been himself lately."

"I know." Daniel closed his eyes and allowed Sam to guide him through the corridor. "I know. So I guess that whole 'leave him be' thing you were going with is something I should have considered, huh, Teal'c?"

"Perhaps."

"I'm on board now," Daniel said, rotating his neck.

Teal'c set his eyes on the end of the hall and spoke in a hushed rumble. "That time has passed."

"What are you saying, Teal'c?" Sam asked.

"It would seem that O'Neill has gone beyond wandering," Teal'c said, pausing to let yet another airman pass. "He is now lost, and must be found."

"Yeah, well, considering our last conversation, I don't think I'm the best candidate," Daniel said, touching his swollen jaw.

"I could go talk to him," Sam offered.

"Major Carter, you would be a most suitable candidate in any other circumstances," he said, allowing Sam room to swipe her access card through the elevator panel. "But I believe it is I who should seek him out."

There was a silence, and Daniel said, "Okay, I'll ask—why?"

"O'Neill and I are old soldiers. We speak, as it were, the same language."

"I don't know, Teal'c," Daniel said, the labor of which sent spikes of agony through his jaw, "I'm not sure anyone speaks whatever the hell language Jack attempts to speak."

"On the contrary, O'Neill and I understand each other perfectly." Teal'c observed Daniel's posture, stooped, holding onto Sam's shoulder far too precariously. He stepped to Daniel's side and removed his hand from Sam, who mouthed a thank you. "I believe I alone can help him find his sin'tek'ateh." Teal'c draped Daniel's arm across his massive shoulder.

"Yes, well," Daniel began, but he weighed the cost between a laying out a snarky comment and abusing his jaw further, and decided to remain quiet.

"Plus, I do not believe O'Neill would strike me." The elevator doors whooshed open before Daniel could counter Teal'c's remark. The three piled inside, the doors closed, and two different buttons were punched.


	4. Chapter 4

Sursum Corda-Chapter Four

**The first seven hundred miles**, the Colorado Springs to Des Moines stretch, went by in a blur. Jack had been so engrossed in thought that he almost missed where 76 meets 80, which would have been bad. He really couldn't deal with having to turn back, even for a few miles.

again, it wasn't thought that was drawing his attention. It was more like a knot of emotions, like wet leather bootstraps impossibly tangled, coming from totally different directions, all snarled together. There was anger, despair, fear-demoralizing moments of the reality he was in. It was exhausting. Yet, he drove on, grateful for cruise control, fueled by caffeine and crullers.

At a breakneck speed, he had raced from the mountain to home, jammed whatever clothes he could find in his duffle, and was out the door. There was no way in hell he was going to stick around, no way he was going to be caught in his house where Carter or Teal'c or…or even Daniel might stop by, just to check in on him. He didn't want anyone to check in on him. He just wanted them all to leave him the hell alone.

It was best that way.

God, what the hell did I bring? Did I bring a jacket, even? Spring is cold up there. I can buy a jacket. Did I bring shoes?

Two hundred and fifty-two miles to Minneapolis. He'd been driving straight through for ten hours, except for gas and coffee stops. Another three, three and a half hours to go, and he'd be practically there. He'd stop for a meal. There was a good truck stop just off the interstate. He could taste the meatloaf, mashed potatoes and carrot and peas medley. He could also feel the indigestion starting. Or maybe that had nothing to do with the meal.

Ah, God, I hit Daniel. Daniel…

Whenever he tried to unravel that particular knot, a wave of deep despair crashed over him. He tried not to think about it, could hardly believe it happened, chose not to, in fact. But the ache in his knuckles reminded him, and the almost palpable burn in his gut served to throw the fact in his face time after time—he had struck his friend. He, an officer in uniform, for Christ's sake, had hit one of his own teammates.

God help me…

Two hundred and fifty-two miles suddenly seemed too far to drive. Jack pulled over at the next rest stop, turned off the truck, and hunched over the steering wheel, until his chest stopped hurting, or until sleep came to him. He hoped it would be sleep. He needed it. His eyes ached, and the muscles up the back of his head burned. He hated to admit it, but his hip sizzled with pain. All in all, not one of his best days.

He supposed it didn't really matter when he drove into town. No one was expecting him, not like anyone was there to greet him when he did arrive. That alone brought him comfort. Better that he not be where other people were. Better to leave it all behind.

Jack unlatched his seatbelt and dug through his coat pockets for his painkillers. So he had brought a jacket. Okay, he didn't remember that part, but you know, what the hell. He shook one pill out, downed it with the remainder of his cold coffee and sat back. Let sleep come. Yeah, this was better. Anonymous along highway 35, where no one would ask him questions, or give him bad news, or check his progress, or get in his face, or be a face-a thousand faces, with a thousand eyes.

Come on, Vicodin. Do your stuff…

Anger had always been the weak spot in his character. It had been the theme that ruled most of his life—anger at this person, that alien, himself. Daniel, a lot. But he had never intentionally physically abused anyone. That is, he hadn't struck anyone who didn't really deserve it, and the courts martial board had backed him up on that a number of times. But this punch, this one would probably land him in the brig. Maybe it was about time. He was a loose canon, and he knew it. More importantly, they knew it, and on the off chance that Daniel didn't file charges, the Air Force was going to slap a star on each of Jack's shoulders and shovel him into a dark corner to rot.

If Daniel didn't file charges, if General Hammond didn't file papers on his rogue officer, then maybe it was for the best that he leave the SGC. Take the promotion, and live with the emptiness his new rank held. It was his penance.

It was probably the first time in his whole career when he agreed with the Pentagon on anything.

Anger had always been his weakness. Guilt, his undoing.

**Sam stepped back from the door**, lowered her head and listened. When she was met by continuous silence, she knocked again. "Colonel?"

"I do not believe he is home, Major Carter," Teal'c said, raising his chin.

"Maybe he's in there, but doesn't want to come to the door." Sam began to walk around the side of the house. Teal'c followed.

"If he did not wish to greet guests, would he not be disturbed to find prowlers in his backyard?" said Teal'c, sidestepping the neighbor's dog's gift.

"Well, okay, what if he's re-injured his hip?"

"Pelvis."

"Whatever," she said, peeking in the windows. "I'd like to think he'd be glad to see us."

"I am certain that is not the case," Teal'c said, stopping short of joining Sam on the back porch.

"Colonel, you in there?" she called out, checking to make sure the door was locked.

"Major Carter, we have been here for over ten minutes. I feel quite confident that O'Neill is, in fact, not home."

Sam's chin dropped, her shoulders sagged. She touched the glass one last time for good measure and backed away. The colonel has a great backyard, she thought, standing on his deck, looking over his land. I wonder how much he gets to enjoy it.

"Where do you think he is, Teal'c?" she asked, taking a seat on the top step.

Teal'c sat down next to Sam, and said, "I am only certain of the fact that he is not here. Beyond that, I am lacking in evidence."

Sam had to smile, once again comforted by Teal'c's malapropism. "You do that on purpose, don't you?"

"I believe answering in the negative, yet implying the affirmative would be appropriate at this time."

Sam scooted closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder. Teal'c glanced down at the top of his friend's head. "I worry about him, Teal'c. I worry about both of them."

"As do I."

"The colonel's been through a tremendous ordeal, Daniel's just getting his…mortal feet under him again. They both seem so scattered." The warmth of an early spring breeze touched their faces. Sam closed her eyes, enjoyed both the comfort of the air and the strength of her friend at her side. "I don't know. I just worry. Do you think their friendship will withstand this latest…crap?"

"O'Neill and DanielJackson are, as we say on Chulack, like mates who have lived long and withstood enough together that the only thing stronger than their dislike for each other is their true devotion."

"Like an old married couple."

Teal'c eyed Sam. "I did not infer any impropriety where O'Neill and DanielJackson are concerned."

"No, it's just…" she began, always caught off guard, never knowing just what Teal'c understood and what he didn't. In seven years, she still couldn't quite get a handle on him. It made her love him that much more. "I guess my point is this: Since Daniel came back, he seems a little…off. Have you noticed that?"

"He has, indeed. However, give him time," Teal'c said. "In order to regain one's original strength, the recuperation period must last as long as the injury lasted."

"Is that more of Master Bratac's sagacity?" she asked, slipping her arm through his.

"No," he said, taking her hand. "I came upon that in 'Runners' World.' The depth of it seemed fitting for this particular quandary."

"I gotta tell ya, Teal'c," Sam said, giggling, "after this stint at the SGC, you might want to think about the comedy circuit."

"What is this comedy circuit that you and O'Neill speak so highly of?"

"It's not important." Sam wrapped her hand around Teal'c's bicep and felt herself relax, or maybe just surrender to her impotence. "I wonder what Master Bratac would say about the colonel's present condition."

The corner of Teal'c's mouth turned up, along with one eyebrow. "You can be assured that Master Bratac would inform O'Neill that should he not draw upon his capacity to rebound within a short period of time, Master Bratac would swiftly connect his boot with O'Neill's hindquarters. He would next inform O'Neill that this action would continue until O'Neill found himself to be in the twenty-second century." Sam looked up, saw that Teal'c was smiling, and began to chuckle. Then laugh. They both laughed, until their faces were wet with tears.

"Oh, Teal'c," she said, after a moment, "what are we gonna do?"

"The SGC is the very marrow in O'Neill's bones. He will return."

"I hope so. I hope so."

**Eight miles until Ely, and finally he'd be home.** Home to that hardly inhabitable cabin in the wilds of Minnesota that had come to be his refuge. Of course, even a refuge needed work. He didn't know how long he would be staying, but he thought he'd look into getting a new water heater. Roughing it with cold showers or baths in the lake was fine when he was younger. Now, well… Probably meant he was getting soft and all, but if enjoying a hot shower meant he was old, so be it.

He hoped the old Log Cabin Party Store and Bait Shop was still open. Every year that he went in there it looked like it was on its last legs. The store's saving grace was that it was so far north (100 miles out of Duluth, for crying out loud), the state's health people probably didn't even know it was there. The beer distributor knew it was there, however, and Norbert, the owner, survived the long winters by catering to the expensive tastes of the hunters. The man knew how to stock beer. Nonetheless, Jack was fairly sure he'd seen the same pimento loaf in the refrigerator case for the last three years.

He began to make a list of the things he'd pick up: Coffee, beer, water bottles—he couldn't take his meds with beer anymore. Another lovely effect of age. Pretty much, that was all he really wanted. Maybe some bread for toast in the morning with his…beer.

He wondered how the roof had held up over the winter. It was gathering moss, and Jack, not the handyman that Sam was, thought that wasn't a good sign. He tried to think back when the last layer of shingles had been laid—twenty, thirty years ago?

Some months back Jack had called an old friend and asked how much snow they had received. "Oh, ya know, we haven't had the snow, maybe only up to the window casings. But the cold has been awful bitter." Okay, first the hot water heater, then a new roof.

He'd have to hire someone, but that would entail having to speak to another person, which didn't fit in with the hermit's life Jack was hoping to begin.

"Ah, the hell with it. If the roof caves in, that's the way it goes."

For years he told himself he'd put some money into the place, spruce it up. More than likely it was so far out of code the county could have torn it down two decades past. That is if they knew where it was. And that's why he loved northern Minnesota so much—nobody ever bothered crotchety old recluses or degenerate PCP producers.

People understood privacy. Up there on the Canadian border, with no more paved roads between Ely and Thunder Bay, a person could regroup. Disappear, if he so pleased. Up there in Boundary Water territory, where it never got too hot, but it certainly got cold, a person could live in peace. A person could live out his life without ever having to hurt another person, or be hurt. A person could stand still and forget.

Six miles out of Ely, and Jack could almost breathe again.

Almost.

**"May I come in, sir?"** Teal'c asked, just outside the general's office.

"Why, certainly, Teal'c." General Hammond capped his pen and offered Teal'c a seat. "How can I help you?"

"It would seem Colonel O'Neill has gone on a holiday, of sorts."

"Yes, I believe he has." The general wove his fingers together and regarded Teal'c with warmth and respect. "Colonel O'Neill has a lot on his mind."

"Indeed." Teal'c bowed deferentially. "It is my hope that O'Neill finds a measure of peace during this respite."

"Mine, too."

"Since leaving the SGC two days ago, Major Carter and I have been unable to locate him."

"I'm sure you haven't."

"Perhaps you could provide me with information regarding his whereabouts," Teal'c said.

"I'm sorry, Teal'c," the general all but whispered. "I can't. The colonel checked in with me this morning, and all I can tell you is he's fine. He just needs our patience and our understanding."

"Which he already has," Teal'c said, rising from his chair. "Thank you for your time, sir."

"Certainly. Teal'c?"

"Yes, General."

The general tipped back in his chair, ran his fingers over his scalp and weighed his words carefully. Something in Jack's voice that morning told him that Jack needed more than rest. He needed a friend, someone he could trust. Someone who wouldn't judge him. Hammond met Teal'c's gaze, studied the Jaffa for a moment, and an idea came to him. "When's the last time you went on a vacation?"

"Sergeant Siler and I went to Albuquerque just last fall to observe the migration of hot air vehicles. It was indeed an…interesting event."

The general laughed. "I'm sure it was. I hear the Midwest is particularly lovely this time of year. Plenty of saplings, spring blossoms. You might consider making that your next trip."

Teal'c locked eyes with the general, tipped his head and said, "Then perhaps that should be my next destination."

"Perhaps it should."

Teal'c let a smile as gentle as breath fill his lips. "General Hammond, would you be so kind as to allow my leave of absence from this base for a short time?"

"By all means."

Teal'c nodded, and the general bowed in return. Teal'c rose from his chair and began to step toward the door.

"Teal'c," Hammond called out just before the other man stepped outside. Teal'c turned around, looked at him with a patient but expectant expression. Hammond rubbed a hand over his jaw before speaking again. "Tell Colonel O'Neill—tell Jack I'm sorry."

"I am certain there is no need," Teal'c said, reassuring the general. "However, I will pass along the sentiment."

"Thank you, Teal'c," he said, and with that, Teal'c began his vacation.

**Jack forced open the warped door**, and the bell jingled. Old scraped and pitted pine flooring underfoot, yellowing shelves held miscellaneous goods, coolers whose glass doors were occluded with condensation—the Log Cabin Party Store and Bait Shop, where right next to the one-pound brick of butter you'd find night crawlers and crickets. It didn't get much better than this…

Jack picked up a loaf of spongy white bread, fortified with eight essential vitamins and minerals to make bones strong. Yeah, he'd need some of that. He looked over the individual fruit pies, wrapped in wax paper, their edges slightly curling. Fruit, good. He'd read somewhere that blueberries had anti-oxidants, and there were probably a couple berries in each of those pies. He'd take two.

His items began to slip from his one free hand, so he brought them up to the counter, where the proprietor of the establishment sat on a milk crate between the counter and the gnarled pine shelves filled with liquor. A smile crept over Jack's lips.

"Got any lottery tickets?" Jack asked, placing the bread and pies on the scratched plastic counter top. The owner didn't look up, a grainy picture on his eight-inch television held his attention. He merely pointed to the rolls of embossed tickets hanging next to the gin.

Jack's eyes twinkled. He took hold of his cane and limped toward the coolers. A couple six packs of Guinness in his hand, and a six-pack of water under his arm, and back to the counter. "So, is there a lake nearby? I'm thinking of doing a little fishing," he said.

The man turned from his TV, his expression dull. "Uh, there's about a thousand-Well, I'll be!" he said, clapping his hands, jumping up. "If it isn't Jack O'Neill! How's she goin', eh?"

Jack took the man's hand with its craggy fingers in his own. "How are ya, Norbert?"

"Oh, ya know. Real good." Norbert stood looking over his old friend, smiling wide enough to show off all his plates. "Yah, real good."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it," Jack said, turning to the snack food aisle. He grabbed a couple bags of chips and returned them to the counter.

"I see dat yer limpin' again," Norbert said, waving his hand toward Jack's leg. "Dat ol' knee givin' ya da business, or'd ya finally break a hip?"

Jack saw no point in the truth, so he simply laughed noncommittally, nodded and perused the assortment of frozen burritos.

"Boy, and it shore don't get no easier after a certain age, eh," Norbert said, beginning to ring up the goods.

Jack tossed two bean burritos on the counter, pulled his money from his pocket and started counting out bills. "No, it sure doesn't."

"So, ya still wid da Air Force, then?"

"Just until they kick me out."

"Haven't seen ya 'round dese parts much." Norbert craned his neck to see past Jack, to the fruit pie shelf and its sign. "Oh, thems are two-fers."

"Really? I'll get two more." Jack hooked his cane on the edge of the counter and hobbled over to the shelf.

"So, ya been o'er seas?"

"Uh, yeah," Jack said, placing a lemon and a strawberry pie down with the rest. "Here and there."

"Nice to be home, though, yah?"

"Yah sure," Jack said, with barely perceptible sincerity. He slapped a fifty on the counter. "You betcha."

Norbert slid the bill off the countertop and handed Jack his change. He pulled a crisp paper bag from under the counter, shook it open and began placing Jack's items inside. "Hey, so ya wannna beer? Alise is in da backroom, going over the books. She and I was just havin' a couple. She'd be tickled pink ta see ya."

Jack looked at his watch. "A beer? It's 8:30 in the morning," he said, deferring to the civilian timekeeping and standard alcohol-consumption decorum.

"Oh, jumpin' jiminy!" Norbert said, cracking his hands together. "Alise, finish 'er up, eh! We gotta make 9 o'clock Mass."

"My, how the catechism has changed."

"Oh, not so much as ya'd notice," Norbert said, pulling a handful of summer sausage sticks from a jar. He held them up for Jack to inspect and summarily placed them in Jack's bag. Norbert grabbed the bag and the water, and came around the counter. Jack, appreciative, took the two six packs of Guinness and met him at the door. "So how long ya gonna be in town, there, Jack?"

"Not sure, Norbert," Jack said, fishing out his keys. "Just enough time to build up my tolerance for well water again, I suppose."

Norbert handed Jack the bag and then the water, and said, "Don't forget about the euchre tournament every Wednesday, down at the K of C."

"That's still going on?"

"Oh, yah, sure."

Jack slid into his truck and put the key in the ignition. "I haven't played in…God, who knows?"

"Wha'? Not played euchre?" Norbert said, shocked. "Dey don't play euchre out yer way?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised how few euchre players I run into." And with that, Jack thought it best to crank the engine.

"Well, ya come on down. You'll pick 'er right up before ya know it."

"Right and left bower?" Jack asked, with a wink.

"Dems would be da ones."

"Maybe, Norbert," Jack said, shaking the man's hand. "Tell Alise to keep one cold for me."

"Oh, yah and so," the old man said, shutting Jack's door. He slapped the hood for good measure, and Jack was off.

**My dear Major Carter, the note began**, and Sam, having never actually received a note from Teal'c, found it oddly humorous that the Jaffa was now resorting to handwritten notes.

With General Hammond's permission, I am taking a brief holiday. I shall return within a week. There is no reason for concern. I am merely familiarizing myself with your geography.

Teal'c

Sam turned the note over, a ridiculous thing to do, as if there would be more on the other side. There never was. Part of the human condition to hope, she thought.

With the colonel gone, Teal'c off gallivanting around the countryside (she very much hoped not in that cowboy hat), and Daniel holed up in his office, Sam felt about as alone as anyone could in a military base staffed by a few hundred people.

"Hey, Sam."

Sam spun around and was greeted by her friend. "Hey, Janet."

"Anything wrong?"

"Um," Sam waffled, looking over the note once more, "I'm not really sure. My teammates kind of keep disappearing, and this time the Asgard have nothing to do with it." She handed the note to Janet.

"Huh." Janet read over the note, smacked her lips together and gave it back to Sam. "He has rather elegant handwriting, doesn't he?"

Sam, chagrined, sighed and said, "Yeah, but aside from that, where does that leave me?"

"I suppose that leaves you to your lab." Janet shrugged, and the hurt in Sam's eyes made her rethink her callousness. "Look, SG1 has overcome worse, Sam. You know that. I mean, for goodness sake, Daniel came back. That in itself was a minor…no, major miracle."

"Speaking of Daniel," Sam said, folding the note and placing it in her jacket pocket, "do you know where he is?"

"I believe he checked out of the base to go to the Academy's dental office."

"Great," Sam said, tossing her hands in the air. "Everybody gets to leave the mountain except for me."

"Where would you like to go?"

"God, I have no idea. Anywhere. Nowhere. I don't know." Sam raked her bangs off her forehead.

"How about dinner tonight. Just you and me. We'll throw back some green apple martinis, wear something devilish and decidedly not military, and toy with Colorado Springs' most eligible and gullible bachelors. What d'ya think?"

Sam had to smile in spite of her bad mood. "Yeah. That would be nice."

"Good. I'll pick you up around seven," Janet said. "Oh, and Sam?"

"Yeah?"

Janet lifted one eyebrow and tweaked a wicked grin. "Bring the note. I think we should discuss Teal'c familiarizing himself with our geography—particularly mine."

"Janet!"

"See you at seven," she said, spinning on her heels. Sam snickered, once again buoyed by her friends.

**Jack stood on the four-by-four cement sla**b, chipped and dotted with lichen, that signified the entranceway to the cabin, reached up and lifted one of the shingles at the ridge of the roofline, just above his head. The edge crumbled in his hand. Just as he had suspected—the place was disintegrating.

The key to the cabin, as it had for decades, hung on a hook just behind the lantern next to the door. Jack didn't really know why they even bothered locking the old cabin. Except for that incident with the lost deer hunters, nobody had ever been in the place that hadn't meant to be there. He unhooked the key, swiped it against his pant legs, and jimmied it into the rusty lock. One of those locks you had to finesse—a jiggle here, pull up on the handle, turn one way, then the other, and before you know it, you're in. Okay, that probably needed replacing, too. The whole place was in disrepair, more than he even remembered. The caulking around the windows was cracked and peeling, the panes rattled when he shut the door.

As soon as he closed the door, he smelled it—musty, damp, rot; generations of dusty cushions and baked insulated wiring. Fifty winters of bone-cracking cold, and fifty summers of oppressive humidity. Ashes left in the fireplace had absorbed some of the moisture, but now they sent out their own acrid scent. The faded wallpaper's integrity seemed to lie only in the years upon years of fish fries, boiled down coffee, and evaporated beer. Dead flies and withered spiders sprinkled the windowsills. Floorboards buckled and separated. The mixture of odors settled on the back of Jack's throat and deep in his sinuses, and he gagged. It smelled to him like a compost of years, like something left to rot.

Clamping his jacket sleeve against his nose, Jack clambered about the place, throwing open decades-old curtains and even older windows, whose rotting edges stuck to the casings, finally lifting with a shriek. He grappled to the front door, threw it open, and made his way to the back door. One way or another he'd have to get rid of that stench, or there was no way he could stay there. Not if it smelled like that other place.

Jack tried to breathe only through his mouth, but the stench was organic, almost palpable, and it heated the fetid air inside the cabin. His head buzzed and whirled. His stomach roiled. He didn't need to be in a place like this, not again. He closed his eyes as though that would somehow lessen the rankness of the very air assaulting him. Except, somehow, behind his closed lids, he saw the eyes. Their eyes. Watching him, studying him. Even here he couldn't escape them. He was sure he could feel his bones shattering again. Jack scraped against the back door trying to get out, a strangled sound of protest escaping his tightly clenched teeth.

And then it was gone, the stench of death and decay. Jack's eyes blinked, his heart raced. His mouth slung open, sucking in clean air. He moved slowly to the edge of the lake, the tip of his cane sinking in the spongy ground. A soft mist floated over the still lake.

Water bugs, like miniscule rowing crews engaged in a haphazard race, skittered across the surface of the water. Loons warbled in the distance, and at the boundary of yard and woods, lilacs. Gentle mounds of soft lavender. Their perfume filtered through the air, a lush fragrance, mercifully replacing the smell of decay that filled Jack's swooning head. To touch the supple buds, pluck one and taste its delicate nectar—gather an armful and carry them to your mother, your teacher, your wife. Place them in a vase and brush the pollen from your sleeves to the sounds of, "Oh, they're beautiful." A lifetime ago…

Had he imagined all those details? Had his memory embellished the simple beauty of the lilacs and the placidity of the cabin? Were they exaggerated sensory memories, just like his exaggerated sense that all would be well once he reached the cabin? Jack lost himself in the mosaic of the bush—spring green and soft mauve, the tender morning sun glistening off the tiny buds. He had the thought that if he could hold the lilacs in his hand, bury his nose deep in their blossoms, that the tactile presence would make it all right and real. That he would be fine and grounded. But the land between the edge of the lake and the bushes looked a little wet, a little unstable, and Jack decided he'd have to appreciate them from a distance. Distance seemed to put most things in perspective. Anyhow, maybe nothing would ever be right or real again, and not even the lilacs of his childhood could bring him fully home.

Home to a place that was falling down all around him. Everything passes its state of usefulness, he thought. Everything and everyone.

The overused muscles in his hip and legs burned. His head pounded. A fatigue had cascaded over him, and Jack plodded back to the porch. He reached out for one of the covered Adirondack chair, pulled off the stained and mildewed tarp, wiped off most of the cobwebs, picked at the flaking paint. He let fall the old duck-cloth covering and lowered his body into the creaking chair. The hard wood didn't help matters, but the angle, the way his head was forced to fall back, made his fatigue all that much more pervasive. He pulled the collar of his jacket up around his ears and hoped the song of the birds would carry him to a quieter, less troubled place. Crows cackled at squirrels; squirrels barked at chipmunks.

Still, it could be worse. He could have been sitting in his office. His office. They were probably emptying it at that moment. Who would take his place? Major Kipfer was due for a promotion. Major Bannon was too, though he didn't deserve it. And, of course, there was Major Carter. She more than deserved it, but knowing Sam as he did, he knew she'd never take the eagles if it meant he was leaving on less than wonderful terms. She'd rather spend the rest of her career as a 2IC than betray her commander.

But he wasn't her commander anymore, and he could hardly be trusted to command anyone again.

"God, Daniel…"

There would be no promotion, no failing upward. He had struck Daniel, and now he was pretty sure they would graciously accept his resignation. Besides, the Air Force had spent enough money on medical expenses on the old guy. Why would they ever bother with the expense of court proceedings?

He'd resign. Even if they didn't court martial him, what did he realistically have left? Nothing. No, he was done. Sell the house, move back to Minnesota. Nothing keeping him in Colorado anymore, nothing important. Move to the cabin for the summer; look for a place closer to Duluth in the fall. Nothing fancy—just a place with enough space between him and the rest of the world so he wouldn't have to deal with anyone. Maybe a place surrounded by trees. In the woods he could trust himself again. Trust that he wouldn't hurt anyone.

Jack pressed his fingers to his searing eyes. "Jesus…"

What if he sent Daniel a note, something. An apology. "Dear Daniel, I'm sorry I smacked you, but sometimes you piss me off." No. "Dear Daniel, you had no idea what was going on, so when you came in I took my anger out on you. Sorry about that. Next time, maybe notch down the questioning when my head is about to explode." Not helping. "Dear Doctor Jackson, you knew this would happen at some point."

This was getting him nowhere.

Disappear. Move to the fringe of civilization, and live out whatever was left of his days. Maybe legitimately break a hip on the ice, like people were supposed to do, not falling from a sensory deprivation stasis beam while they all watched…

Disappear, so no one else will see the truth—the truth of his worthlessness. That he's no good to himself, or anyone else. That from here on out he'd probably only be a burden, and, Christ, the last thing he ever wanted was to be a burden. Or beholden.

No, best to just leave it all behind. Forget. Forget. Never forgive…

**Sam looked over the results** of the spectrum analysis she had run, and Daniel stared at a book on Minoan dialects. When he slammed the book shut, Sam jumped and glared at him.

"Was that necessary?" she asked, touching her fingers to her carotid artery.

"I gotta get out of here," Daniel said. He raised his hands to the ceiling, stretched his shoulders and arms.

"Fine. Let's go." Sam put her computer on standby and grabbed her jacket off the back of her chair.

Daniel froze mid-stretch, and said, "Um, okay. Where?"

"I don't know," she said. "Up. Out. We'll go for a ride. Who knows?"

Daniel's arms fell into his lap. He thought about it a moment, couldn't think of anything that seemed more important, and said, "How'd you get here?"

"The 1952 Volvo," she said with pride, pulling on her jacket.

"Then I'll drive," he said.

"Are you kidding? Didn't your car win all sorts of safety awards?"

"Yes, I believe it did. 'Car and Driver' said it was the safest sedan on the market."

"Yeah," Sam said, scrunching up her nose. "You know what? I think I'll drive."

"Does your car even have seat belts?"

"Probably, but it's so low to the ground the center of gravity issues are almost negated, thereby forcing its occupants into the seats at low Gs, rather than torquing—"

"This is like a physics thing, isn't it?"

"Do you understand anything that I'm saying?"

"Enough to know I'm being bamboozled."

"Come on, Daniel!" Sam sighed, dropping her hands to her side. "I thought you wanted to get out of here."

"Fine," he said, carefully stacking his pile of books. "We'll take your car. But you do realize we're expected back, and—here's the kicker—we're expected back alive." Daniel winked at her, and Sam was fairly certain she would be able to excuse him this last time for his sarcastic eye-thing, and after that she'd have to kick his ass.

"You'll be fine, pretty boy," she said. "I'm a licensed pilot. Besides, the government trusts me."

"Please tell me you're not going to recite 'Top Gun' lines now," he said, finding it curious to discover that he'd tucked a pencil behind his ear at some point. Someone's initials were carved into the end near the gnawed-on eraser.

"What? No." Sam turned off the lights in her lab. "Besides, that's Navy. Don't know if you noticed, but Air Force officers don't tend to recite lines from movies about Naval aviators." And then it was Sam's turn to wink at Daniel.

"No, of course, because you're too busy reciting lines from 'The Wizard of Oz,'" he said, holding the door open for her.

"To Oz, then?" she asked, gliding by him.

"To Oz," he said, and they proceeded to the exit, only a short corridor and eighteen flights away.

Once outside, they paused just at the mouth of the mountain and shaded their eyes.

"Was it this sunny this morning?" Daniel asked, clipping his sunglasses on over his frames. When his hand dropped from his glasses, his fingers grazed against the still tender lump on his jaw, just turning from hard purple to jaundiced yellow.

"Couldn't tell ya. I was stationed on base last night," Sam said. "I'm parked over here."

While they walked, Daniel toyed with the new filling in his tooth, still rough and unfamiliar to his tongue, and therefore irresistible. A nervous habit, he thought, and told himself to stop it. Find something else to occupy your mind, or, at the very least, your tongue.

"Ya have any gum, Sam?" he asked.

Sam nodded toward her car, and said, "Yeah, in the console."

"Sugarless?"

"No."

"Good."

"The Nutrasweet makes me dizzy."

"Oh."

"Aspartame is also bad."

"So I've heard."

"Do you remember saccharine?"

"Um…"

"My mom used to drink Tab. Remember Tab?"

"Not…"

"And Diet Rite."

"Sam?"

"I don't mind Diet Vanilla Coke, but…"

"Sam," Daniel said, reaching for her elbow. "Is there a point to this?"

Sam looked at him, not quite seeing him for a moment, and said, "Uh, no. I guess not. I think I'm tired."

"Okay, so tell me why I'm getting in a car with an exhausted, spacey driver?" he asked.

Sam glowered. "You wanna go, or not?" Daniel shrugged, and Sam unlocked her car door, slid behind the wheel and reached across to unlock Daniel's door. Daniel perused the low opening and tried to decide how best to get his six-foot frame into a sardine can. Very carefully, he thought.

"Daniel, let's go," she called, leaning across his seat, the motor already revving. Daniel harrumphed and wedged himself into the car. He had just grabbed the door handle when Sam began to pull away. It was going to be an interesting ride.

But once out on the open road, Sam was the model of responsible driving. Daniel wondered if just getting out of the mountain was enough to bring her a modicum of peace. What, he wondered, would do the same for him? He couldn't remember the last time he felt at peace. With the Ancients, yes, he was at peace, but he was also very much alone. And lonely. That, he remembered.

God, his memory—it was so scattered and piecemeal. The damnedest things bubbled up at the most inappropriate times, or the strangest things disappeared in the endless black of his mind.

When they had first brought him back to the SGC, he remembered telling himself to act natural. Greet people with the same amount of candor and effervescence as he had always greeted people. Or not. He couldn't be sure. Those were the hardest days, the days and weeks when whole chunks of his past bombarded him, always scrambled and always askew. He relied on his teammates in those days to help reconstruct the pieces, especially Jack. Jack had always been the one to not only help him with the chronology of things, but do it in a casual manner, as if a little amnesia here and there was no big thing. Jack was always the one who patiently let Daniel blabber on until the parts came together, and he was always the one who patted Daniel on the back and either congratulated him, or consoled him.

Of course, there was the two-day period when he led Daniel to believe his favorite food was mashed potatoes with taco sauce. Neither Daniel nor his intestines had forgiven Jack for that.

But more often than not, Jack was there to help guide him through the labyrinth of memories. Like the week after he had descended, when, in a quiet moment, the face of a woman popped into Daniel's mind. He had closed his eyes to better concentrate on her features. He knew the face, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out who she was to him.

He breathed deeply and slowly, willing his mind to provide him with more details-an action, a scent, a voice.

"Honey? Time for dinner, Danny."

Daniel was up and out of his chair, and racing down the hall before the woman could turn around again in his memory. His jacket billowed behind him, his mind bursting with images and sounds.

"Jack!" Daniel cried, rounding the corner to Jack's office.

Two levels of carefully constructed playing cards tumbled down to Jack's desk. Jack's head slumped forward, and from his chest, he barked, "What?"

"Oh, um…sorry about…" he began, but he could hardly be bothered with such minor details. "So, Jack, I remember something."

Jack swept up the cards, rattling off one profanity after another, just under his breath. "Is that so?" Jack turned the cards over, slapping each one face up in order to begin his tower again.

"I remember my mom," Daniel stated, breathless, his eyes sparkling with delight.

Jack lost interest in the deck of cards, focusing his compassion on Daniel's smiling face. "Your mom."

"Yes! I remember her!" Daniel jumped two-footed in front of a chair and plunked down, extraordinarily pleased with himself.

"That's…that's great, Daniel, um," Jack said, pushing away from his desk. "So, your mom—tell me about her."

Daniel's focus raced around the room, his patented look of "Is it just me, or are you an idiot?" "I don't know. She's my mom, I guess. And I was thinking," he began, shaking a finger near his face, engaged in thought, "did you call her? I mean, like, does she know about my…" He looked at Jack for a minute, trying to find the words, and when those failed him, he pointed his finger down to the ground and whistled like a cartoon character falling off a cliff.

"No. No, we didn't call her," Jack said, narrowing his eyes.

"Well, maybe we should. Don't you think she'd want to know? I mean, think about it, maybe if we could talk, she could bring some family pictures…" Daniel lifted his empty hands, showing he, too, was in murky waters. "I don't know, but I…I think it might help."

"Daniel…"

"Why don't we just call her? I'm not…sure about the number. Things kind of come and go."

"Daniel…"

"She should know, though, right? Wouldn't you agree that…she would want…" He searched Jack's face for capitulation, for understanding, anything. "Why haven't you called her?"

"Daniel," Jack said, brushing his hand under his nose, "tell me what you remember about your mom." He took the seat next to Daniel, propped his heels up against the legs and elbows on the armrest.

"Like what?"

"For starters, what does she look like?"

"She's…she looks like a mom. Jack." Daniel stood up, began to pace around the room. He talked with one hand in his pocket, one hand out to help clarify his speech and to provide appropriate sign language. "She has, um… glasses and blond hair, and she's about this tall," he said, lifting his hand well over his head. Daniel looked at his hand and after a moment at Jack, realizing how nonsensical that would be. "Apparently, my mom is seven feet tall. Why do I think she's so tall?" Jack shrugged and tried to smile, the kind of smile you offer your best friend when you think he's nuts. "Is she that tall, Jack?"

"Uh, no. Daniel," Jack said, dovetailing his fingers, "what did she get you for your last birthday?"

Daniel blinked, stood still, and said, "Chess set. Made of soap stone."

"The one you have in your apartment?"

"Yeah."

"She just got that for you?"

Like water running off a tin roof, Daniel's face changed. "Didn't she?"

"When did you learn to play chess?"

He licked his lips, his cheeks began to color. "Um, I don't know—when I was eight?"

"Yeah, sounds about right. I taught Charlie how to play when he was seven."

Daniel bit the inside of his cheek, and hoped his voice would hold. "She, uh, she made me a cake, I think. She wasn't very good at baking cakes. I remember that." He laughed, more to let loose the tension building in his voice than anything else. "Yeah, she…she made two round cakes and put them on a big platter, end to end. White frosting. Along the edges were chocolate chips so it looked kind of like a figure eight." He paused in his meaningless pacing and looked at Jack. "It was fairly ugly, but…I loved it."

"Sounds nice," Jack said, holding his friend's beleaguered focus.

"Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"I can't call her, can I?"

Jack rounded out his lips, blinked a few times, wondered if there was any way he could allow his friend this one delusion, just this one. "No, Daniel. I'm sorry."

Daniel's eyes closed and his head lowered. "When?"

"Best of my knowledge, a couple months after your eighth birthday."

Should he cry? Should he try to understand why such things happen? It felt so raw. Like flesh had been ripped from his body, flesh that didn't belong there in the first place.

"Well, the surprises never end, do they?" Daniel finally said, feigning his chagrined acceptance of things that he had lived through but had no recollection. "Wife's dead, Mom's dead, I was dead. Lots of death around me. You notice that, or is just me?"

"Yeah," Jack said, watching his friend carefully, knowing full well Daniel was putting on a hell of an act. Impressive one, at that. But it couldn't last. One. Two. Three…

Daniel jabbed one fist into his hip, and planed a hand across his mouth, nodding. "Yeah. Yeah." He sniffed a time or two, nodded some more, wiped his hand across his mouth again, and gave up. When his eyes locked on his friend's, Jack could see the pain, the exasperation in Daniel's watery eyes.

"Ya all right?" Jack asked.

Daniel knocked his fist against his pursed lips and tried to control his emotions. He squinted and held firm until the tightness in his throat began to ache. "I…"

"What."

"This whole, uh…" He waved circles in the air and tried to swallow. "Kind of tired of the whole … 'peeling back the onion' thing. Maybe you could just…"

Jack stood up, repositioned Daniel's chair so it faced away from the window, and shut his office door.

And for the next two hours he gave back Daniel as many of the missing pieces in his friend's scattered life as he was able.

"What are you thinking about?" Sam asked, and Daniel, hearing her voice from somewhere far away, just stared at her, mouth agape. Sam glanced at Daniel before returning her attention to the curved mountain pass. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Was it about Colonel O'Neill?"

Daniel turned to his window and watched the shoulder of the road drop off. "Yeah, it was about Jack."

"Wanna share?"

"Not really."

"He was wrong for having hit you, Daniel, but…"

"That's not—"

"No, it needs to be—"

"Sam—"

"No, now wait!" she said, and pulled to the side of the road. This time when Daniel looked out his window, he could see the valley below. "We need to talk about this."

"Yes, I'm sure we do, but—"

"So let's talk." And she switched off the ignition and waited, arms crossed over her chest. "Go ahead. You first."

Daniel watched rocks tumble over the edge of the cliff, just inches from his view. "Um, are you sure all four wheels are safely on the shoulder, Sam?"

"Daniel!"

"What, Sam?" he asked, turning his attention toward her. "What…what do you want to know?"

Sam just looked at him, sighed and shook her head. "Where are you?"

"Well, presently, I'm about two inches from the edge of the mountain. Is this one of those torture techniques listed under acceptable practices by the Pentagon?"

Sam was out the door and slamming it before Daniel could get another word in. His ire rose, and he grabbed for his door handle, and suddenly remembered just how far down the first step was going to be. "Chit," he said, through clenched teeth, realizing the only way out was across Sam's seat and out the door, without becoming too familiar with either the stick shift or emergency break.

Tumbling hands-first out of the tiny car, Daniel grunted and groaned before finding his footing. Once up, he brushed the dust from his body and rounded the front of the car just to see exactly how close he thought she had come to the edge, and found he was exactly right.

"Either you're really good, or you're really lucky, either way…"

"Dammit, Daniel." Sam threw her arms around her midsection, gritted her teeth and looked out over the valley below. "Since you came back…Don't get me wrong, Daniel, I'm thrilled beyond words to have you home, but since your de-ascension…"

"It's like my seventh chevron's not engaged?" he asked, nudging her with his elbow, hoping to awaken her humor, maybe finding the same in himself.

She pivoted to face him, her hands free to gesticulate as sharply as she felt necessary. "It's like you're a quarter turn from center, Daniel, and you're making us all miserable trying to pretend that you're not."

"Wow," he said, stunned. He was prepared for a dismissive comment, for a "get real" adjustment to his sensibilities, not a validation for his own feelings. "I didn't…" He felt a sudden, odd twinge of embarrassment, no, hurt, if he were to be honest, at Sam's words. "Well, it's not like I'm doing it on purpose, or anything," He turned away from Sam's anger, crossing his arms over his chest. He realized that he probably looked as sulky as he felt, but for the moment, he was at a loss for what to do, what to say.

Sam sighed, pressed her fingers into her eye, and said, "Look, don't worry about it. You're…you. You're fine, it's just that…"

"That quarter turn scenario."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Like, every time I go into your office I find something that doesn't belong to you. What's the deal with that?"

Daniel's eyelids fluttered, and he had to ask himself the same question. "I don't know."

"And you've always been relentless, dogged, even, but this thing with Colonel O'Neill," she said, shaking her head, peering into his far-away eyes, "you've gone way beyond curious. It's like you're obsessed, and you can't even see how obsessed you really are."

"I…I'm just…"

"What? Explain it to me. Please." And she waited for an explanation. It wasn't a taunt, it was a plea for edification, and Daniel could only stare back at her, shaking his head.

"I don't know, Sam. This thing with Jack—it's under my skin, and I'm not sure why."

Sam looked deep into his troubled eyes and led with her heart. "Then I'm going to make a decision, for the good of us all. The inquiry into what exactly went down on L57-264 ends now."

"We can't just let it go."

"Give me one compelling reason why not." Once again, it wasn't a taunt. Once again, Daniel was stymied. "Until Colonel O'Neill is back, and until SG1 returns to…something like normal, that's the way it's gonna be."

"Are you telling me that as my acting CO, or as my friend?"

"Take your pick, because, honestly, I don't give a damn." Sam looked away for a moment when she saw only confusion in Daniel's eyes. She tore a hand through her hair and decided to change tactics. "I'm just worried about you, all right? I'm worried that-"

Daniel frowned, trying to follow the train of Sam's churning emotions. He scanned her face to read any sub context, but found only honest determination and fatigue. "Worried that what?"

Sam took a short breath and said what she'd been afraid to for so long. "That maybe... maybe this time, we're not to going to get over this. That maybe nothing will ever be the same again." Sam turned from him, filled her lungs with the cold mountain air, and when she exhaled, the air came out a staccato peal. "I just want things to be the way they were…"

"Okay," he said. "Um, poof! Voila! Turn back the clock and make everything…normal again." Sam straightened, and the muscles along her jaw line contracted. "Oh, wait. I forgot—I can't do that glowy magic stuff anymore." Daniel raised his eyebrows, watching her reaction, hoping to lessen some of the tension zigzagging between them. "Of course, you also have to ask yourself—just exactly what is normal?"

"This isn't helping, you know."

"I know," Daniel said, lowering his eyes. "I wish I could say I missed the way things used to be, too, before Jack got hurt, before… you know..." He waved his fingers in front of his chest in a fluttery gesture, "but I don't remember how exactly those things were. I'm starting to remember some of the things we did, and when we did them, it's just those subtle grayer areas that are a little harder to recollect. I just…" Daniel shrugged, felt his face redden. He let out a soft chuckle to try to hide it.

"Why didn't you tell me this, before?" she asked, watching him.

Daniel licked his lip, quirked a brow. "I wanted to do it on my own. I suppose I had to prove something to myself."

"You don't have to prove anything, Daniel."

"Not to you, maybe." And he left it at that.

"Then to whom?"

"It's getting cold out here. Are you cold? I'm cold."

"Daniel, to whom are you trying—"

"You know, I could really use a coffee. Want one? I'll buy. Good coffee. Not from—"

"Daniel." Sam pinched his elbow. She could feel him careening away from her and from the subject.

Daniel looked at her, bit the inside of his cheek, and considered his response. Considered his reaction. "There's this…void, Sam. This," he said, and paused. He sucked in his lip, shook his head. How could he give words to something he didn't understand? "I wish I could tell you, but I can't."

"Why?"

"Because it's all mixed together at this point. It's…whatever this blending is, of who I was, who I am—it's mixed together, and…there are these pockets of air."

Sam closed her eyes and really tried to follow along. "Daniel, I have no idea what—"

"I know. And that's what I'm trying to say."

She opened one eye and grimaced. "What?"

He hunched his shoulders, leaned as if he were going to begin an explanation. A tense, disquieted moment passed, and his shoulders and his posture fell back. "I have no idea."

"Well, when you do, you'll tell me, right?" she asked.

He waffled for a moment, and after a time nodded. "Yeah. I will."

Sam looked down and noticed the precipice of the cliff. She glanced over at her car tire, flush with the edge. "Did I do that?"

"Yeah, Sam. Ya did," Daniel said, grimacing.

"Why didn't you tell me I was so close to the edge?"

Daniel opened his mouth to refute her, but thought better of it. "I should have. My fault."

"Let's just…let's go back."

"Coffee?"

"Yeah, I think I could use some."

"Me, too. Maybe a Valium, as well."

They stepped to the car, paused and Sam told Daniel to stay put while she inched the car off the shoulder. Daniel, grateful, opened his car door and jimmied his body into his seat.

**The breeze brushing against his face woke him.** It was cool, not bracing, but with just enough residue of winter to prickle the skin. The afternoon sun, however, slowly migrating back into the northern hemisphere, was warm, and Jack felt like his cheeks were glowing from the inside out. There was a comfort and an uncertainty being caught between disparate seasons.

The thing is, he couldn't remember falling asleep. He checked his watch—1427—and decided it was past time to eat, so maybe a beer would do. He hoped the beer and the rest of the groceries were still cold in the back of his truck

Jack rolled his neck, trying to think, trying to fully wake up. Then he remembered the cabin and its stench. That had to be taken care of first, or he was fairly sure he'd end up burning the place down just out of sheer anger.

Burn. Fire. That was it! You want to get rid of the mustiness, you dry it up. Jack pressed his body out of the chair, took time and pains to do so slowly, straightened his torso and the muscles around his hip as carefully as he could, and allowed the feeling of being vertical to settle in. He shrugged. Not too bad, considering, he thought. He grabbed his cane that had been propped up against the side of the cabin, and shuffled to the pile of seasoned wood off the corner of the place.

It was always kind of interesting to uncover the pile for the first time after a long winter. Jack never knew what animal he'd find had nested in the protected crannies. Usually mice and chipmunk. Occasionally he'd find bigger animals. One year he found a twenty-dollar bill on top of the pile, which had dwindled in the months between visits. Hunters had their own set of morals, and Jack respected that. You do what you need to get by, but you don't take advantage.

No money this year, and only a couple scrapings and piles of animal droppings. Must have been a bad winter. He stacked three logs in the crook of his arm and turned. If he didn't have to use the damn cane, he could have taken more. He could always make more trips, which meant more use of his aching hip. Either way—more trips, more wood—he was going to be hurting. As much as he couldn't stand the thought of the SGC at that moment, he did kind of miss the whirlpool. If the Cheyenne Mountain was a big ol' thundercloud, then the whirlpool was its stainless steel lining. With Epsom salt.

Jack paused at the back door, took a deep breath and stepped in. Screw it. He'd hold his breath, plug his nose. He'd be okay. Nonetheless, the sooner the rot was gone, the better. He dropped the three logs—clonk, clonk, clonk—on the heat shield over the old pine floorboards, and began scrunching up old newspapers and paper bags. With a wail, the cast iron door opened, and Jack shoved in the crumpled paper. He palmed one of the logs, was very surprised at his lack of strength in his arm, and tossed the quartered log on top of the paper. And next a second log.

The tin can of matches was still on the spindle table as it had been forever, as far as Jack was concerned. His grandfather had warned him not to play with the can of matches when Jack was a little boy; his father had warned him not to burn the place down with the same matches when Jack was a teenager; Jack showed Charlie how destructive matches could be when Charlie was six. One lesson learned, he supposed. No fires, and the place was still standing. Barely.

One good blaze, and the newspaper began to ignite. Jack closed the door, and again it wailed from neglect. He opened the flue, and watched the belly of the old stove fill with orange and yellow flames.

"That oughta do it," he said, brushing the bits and pieces of bark from his hands. The sharp smell of burning oak escaped the fire and filled his nose. Good. Excellent. He'd rather smell hardwood burning than dank rot anytime.

The burritos! D'oh! When he had reached the cabin, he tried to remember if there was anything in his bags that had to be put away immediately. The beer—well, that could be stored in the fish cage in the lake at the end of the dock like it traditionally had been stored, and so it could wait. Nothing like spring-fed waters to keep beer cold. But the frozen burritos…Jack trudged out to the truck, grabbed the bag and beer, and trudged back in. He set the packs of Guinness on the counter, reached into the bag, and his fingers came upon a summer sausage stick. He jammed one in his mouth and searched again for the wrapped burritos. Squishy and flaccid, Jack pulled them out of the bottom of the bag. He dropped one on the old Formica counter top and tossed one in his hand.

"When in Rome, do like the Minnesotans do," he said, and crossed the open space to rest the burrito on top of the stove. In about ten minutes, he'd have a hot burrito, and if there were any botulism in it, well, by then the tremendous amount of beer he hoped to have in his system would attack the bacteria.

He rooted around in his jacket pockets and found the orange vial of pain medication Fraiser had given him. He hooked his cane on the counter edge, rotated his hips and found, aside from the stiffness of the nap and the drive, he wasn't too bad. He scooted the container onto the back of the counter and decided a celebratory beer was in order. He grabbed one of the six packs and thought how nice it would be to drink a beer out on the porch, that is after he put the other five in the 'fridge.' They were getting a little warm. Time to introduce them to the kind of cold only a Minnesota lake in spring could produce. He might even try to make it without his cane. He got to the back door, saw the uneven ridges in the tall grass, and decided caution was the better part of walking.

On the way back out of the kitchen, Jack grabbed not only his cane but also one more summer sausage. It was greasy, tough and full of gristle, but it hit the spot. He stopped at the pot belly stove, hooked his cane onto his arm, checked his burrito, flipped it over, and took a whiff of the cabin so far. It was getting there. Far from dried out, but getting there.

Jack stepped out of the cabin, took a better hold of his cane and his beer, and was careful to watch his step off the two boards that served as a stoop. He pushed the tarp that had covered the Adirondack chair out of his way with his cane. Jack felt beads of sweat on his forehead. More walking than he had done in a long time. Felt good to be on his own, with nobody asking him what he wanted and if they could do anything for him. What they could have done was to leave him alone. Jack wiped the sweat off his skin and continued on toward the dock.

"I find the weather here very pleasing."

Jack spun to face the voice. God dammit, he thought. Adrenalin skittered through his limbs. His heart tapped a nervous cadence in his chest.

Teal'c rounded the side of the cabin, strode onto the dock and looked out over the lake, his hands woven behind his back. "Much more pleasing than the last time I was here."

Jack squinted into the late afternoon sun, resentful that his sanctuary had been invaded. "What are you doing here, Teal'c?"

"I have been assured that Minnesota is quite lovely this time of year." Teal'c tipped his head and glanced at Jack behind him. "Seeing your cabin surrounded by spring flora, I must concur."

"Oh, must you?" Jack said. His tongue played with a chunk of dried beef in his teeth, and tried to think how best to get rid of the unwelcome and uninvited visitor. But first he had to get rid of his beer. Jack's fingers choked the handle of the beer carrier. "You know, as much as I love Minnesota, Wisconsin is breathtaking." He hobbled to the edge of the dock, tried everything in his power not to show Teal'c how much it cost him to crouch down, and reached for the lyme-encrusted chain that held the fish cage. "Michigan, spectacular. In fact, I think you should take the circle tour of the lakes."

"Would you be joining me, O'Neill?"

"Me?" he asked, grabbing the chain. "Nah. That much beauty is a little too rich for my diet." The box came up from the depths, effortlessly pulling through the water. Jack placed it on the edge of the deck, opened the trap and put five of the beers inside. He closed the trap and pushed the cage off the edge. He grabbed the sixth beer between his thumb and forefinger, and used the dock mooring and his cane to push himself up. Once up, once he'd taken a much needed sip of beer, once he'd stared at a smiling Teal'c long enough, Jack said, "Again I gotta ask, what are you doing here, Teal'c?"

"I am pleased to find that I am not being attacked by your state bird, O'Neill."

Jack grimaced, tried to think back when such an attack might have happened, and asked, "You've been attacked by loons?"

Teal'c turned to face Jack, raised one questioning brow, and said, "I have been told that the state bird is the mosquito, however, it is my understanding that mosquitoes are, in fact, insects."

"It's a joke, Teal'c."

"I find little humor in carnivorous insects."

Jack stared at Teal'c for a moment, trying to decide if he cared enough to continue on with the conversation. He realized fairly quickly that he couldn't care less.

"Don't suppose you'd want one," Jack said, waving a bottle at the Jaffa.

"No."

"Well, that's all I have to offer, so, Teal'c, good to see you. Tell everyone I said hi, and—"

"I believe we both know why I'm here."

"I believe one of us does." Jack screwed off the top of his beer and dropped the cap into his pocket. "The other one believes the first one is wasting his time with all his misplaced beliefs."

"Why are you not fishing?" Teal'c asked.

"I think that's obvious. I'd rather be spending my time making small talk with you."

Teal'c bowed in deference, and Jack rolled his eyes. The Jaffa strolled off the dock, smiling at the pleasant surroundings, and motioned toward the one uncovered Adirondack chair. Jack didn't give in that he had any inclination what Teal'c was offering. He stood on the dock, sipping his beer, swallowing his bitterness.

Teal'c stood perusing the covered chair, deciding after a while to take the chance that it was, in fact, another piece of furniture. The things he had found covered by Tau'ri in the last seven years made him always think twice before haphazardly excavating them. He lowered his body into the chair, smiled and closed his eyes. "This is most enjoyable, O'Neill. I believe I now understand the attraction of this place."

"I may have asked this before, but my memory isn't what it used to be," Jack said, pressing his cane close to his hip while he walked. "Why the…hell are you here?"

"Norbert of the Log Cabin Party Store tells me that to catch a trout, one must have an intelligence quotient only five points higher than the fish."

"That explains why Norbert buys his fish frozen."

"I took the liberty to read about aquatic animals indigenous to these waters. I am most interested in the hunt for sturgeon."

Jack felt his resolve lessening. He shook his head and dangled his beer from his fingers. "You don't hunt for sturgeon. You fish for them."

"Are they not mighty warriors?"

"Uh, they fight, if that's what you mean. Yeah, they'll give ya a good go."

"Then perhaps we should go out onto the water in search of sturgeon."

Jack found his headache from earlier returning. "For crying out loud, Teal'c, would you stop with the fish? You didn't come all the way up to Minnesota to talk fish! You hate fish!"

"I do not despise such creatures."

"That's not really the point, is it?"

"What else shall we converse on?"

"Nothing!"

Teal'c hunkered down deeper in the chair, making himself quite comfortable. "Have you not invited me to join you here often?"

"In the past, I suppose so. I don't remember having done so recently."

"I am merely taking you up on your offer, my friend."

Jack roared off the dock, the water rippling below him. "Dammit, Teal'c, I'm in no mood for this!"

Teal'c opened his eyes and looked up at the menacing expression on Jack's face staring down at him. "There is a great deal of anger within you."

"There wasn't five minutes ago!"

"I am here to help you rid yourself of that anger, and many other useless emotions."

"Well, thank you, Dr. Phil, but I think a few days of the northern life, and I'll be just fine. And when I mean northern life, what I'm really describing is seclusion. Meaning me. Alone. As in you're not here!" A whiff of smoke, and Jack glanced past Teal'c and into the cabin where he could see his burrito beginning to smolder. "Dammit, now my lunch is burning." Jack hooked his cane on his arm, hopped into the cabin and to the stove. He touched the packet, found it to be scorching, pinched the edges of the foil, and carried the hot package into the kitchen. He tore open the wrapper a bit at a time, blowing on his fingers and the steam rising from the burrito.

Teal'c, whom Jack hadn't realized had followed him in, was standing behind Jack, peering down into the singed package. "Was that a cheese burrito?"

"Yes!" Jack growled over his shoulder. "And no, you can't have it."

"I would never presume."

"Oh, yes you would."

"Perhaps you are correct."

"Look, T," Jack said, holding up his hands, pulsing them in front of him, as if pushing back the edge of his contempt, "I appreciate what you're doing."

"Do you, O'Neill?"

Jack paused to study Teal'c's face, and his shoulders drooped. "Well, no. Not really."

"I am here to lend my camaraderie."

"Couldn't you do that in a nice email?"

"I do not…e-mail my friends," Teal'c said, and the words left his mouth as if covered in rancid oil.

"You should consider it. Especially for those friends who wish to be left alone."

"Did you bring your laptop with you on this sojourn?"

"No, not this time."

"Do you own a laptop?"

"I've had a lap dance," Jack offered, hoping Teal'c would grow tired of the ridiculousness of it all and leave.

"You struck DanielJackson."

Jack eyed his friend, searching for anger, for disappointment. He found only concern, and Jack thought he could deal with anything else a whole lot better. He turned away from Teal'c, grabbed hold of the edge of the counter and slung his head low. "Yes. So I did."

"Do you not feel a sense of remorse over the incident?"

Jack sighed and said, "You know, there's a reason Iowa is south of Minnesota. It's our own little buffer to keep everyone else out. Didn't you read the brochure when you drove through Des Moines?"

"I flew into Minneapolis-St. Paul."

"They let you fly here?" Jack asked, facing Teal'c in his astonishment.

"I have been given clearance to venture freely about, as I wish."

"So you decided you'd come up to Ely? I gotta tell ya, Mall of America is much more your style."

"DanielJackson chose not to file charges against you."

Jack grabbed the plate with the burned burrito and jostled Teal'c out of the way. "His decision. I don't care."

"Major Carter is concerned about you, as well."

"She needs to get a hobby." Jack plunked himself down in the tufted armchair, circa 1963. Dust plumed into the air all around him.

"She is concerned about the continuity of SG1."

"Not my problem, Teal'c." Jack turned the plate first one way, then the other, having lost his appetite long before the burrito turned black.

"Are you not the commanding officer of SG1?"

"I'm taking a leave. You might have noticed we're not presently in the SGC."

"The entire SGC is concerned for your well being."

"The entire SGC can go straight to hell, Teal'c. I don't give one good goddamn." And to highlight his resentment, Jack smashed the plate and the burrito onto the floor.

Teal'c, ever the model of serenity, waited for Jack's explosive anger to simmer down. He watched while his friend pinched the bridge of his nose, raked his hand through his hair, and smacked a ricocheted piece of burrito off the chair. Jack muttered a string of profanities, tossed his head onto the back of the chair and just sat, quietly, his air coming in heavy sighs.

"O'Neill."

"What is it?"

"What is a fish boil?"

Jack lifted his head enough to look Teal'c straight in the eye, and decided, in dejected surrender to the inevitable, that he was going to need more snacks.

**"Finally, Major Carter,** where do we stand on the mission to L57-264?" asked General Hammond, opening the last of the files.

"Well, sir, as you know, both Doctor Jackson and I have stated, in the previous briefings, that we'd like to go back to the planet in search of answers," Sam began, looking at Daniel to gather his support. Daniel frowned, but nodded. Sam wasn't sure if the reaction was to her description, or to the fact that the air in the briefing room was stale and sorely lacking in vitality. "However, in light of the colonel's leave of absence, I felt it best to table that discussion until which time Colonel O'Neill is able to offer his input."

"I agree," the general said, signing the bottom of the file, marking the date, with decisive slashes in between hurried numbers. "Well, I think that just about does it."

"Yes, sir," Sam said, standing at attention.

General Hammond stood up, gathered his files and nodded perfunctorily to his junior officer.

Daniel finished decorating the edge of his paper with hash marks. He pushed his chair away from the table, letting the momentum carry him back a good yard. He sat still for a long time, just thinking, silent. Sam took her seat once again and wilted. Hushed and spent. It had been a long meeting, at the end of a long day, after a long week. It seemed like they had spent the entire week running in one place, with no progress to show, no completion other than to exhaust themselves.

Daniel planted his elbow on his armrest, his chin in his hand, so that when he talked his head bobbed up and down. "Maybe Jack was right. What if I am trying to make up for lost time?"

Sam stared at the center of the bi-colored table, her knuckles against her temple. "What do you mean?"

"What if I am trying to prove myself, trying to gain…points, or whatever? Who knows?"

"Daniel, let it go," she said, with hardly enough energy in her voice to back up her command. "The colonel was just trying to goad you."

"But what if I am trying to…I don't know, compensate for something."

"Then make yourself feel better, and go buy a…a…"

Daniel slanted his head to get a look at her. "A what?"

"I was trying to come up with something cliché, and all I could think of was a sports car and a motor cycle."

"Gee, Sam, don't you have both of those?" Daniel asked, his blinking eyelids becoming heavy with lethargy.

"Yeah, that's why I was trying to think of something else."

"Because you're not compensating for anything."

"Probably, but why analyze a good thing?"

"Because you're a scientist, and that's what you do?"

Sam turned enough to look at Daniel, but not enough to lose contact with her hand. "What were you saying about the colonel?"

"Oh, right. Jack. Anyhow," he said, pushing his glasses on the top of his head and rubbing his eyes, "I've been thinking about it, and maybe my pilfering has something to do with filling a void, making up for lost…whatever."

"Wait a minute," Sam said, lifting a finger but only about ninety degrees from where it laid. "You're saying you've been hoarding rolls of toilet paper because when you were one of…"

"The Others. A follower of Oma. The Ascended. An Ancient. You know, the Others."

"Fine. When you were one of the Ancients, you missed all that cottony softness?" she asked, and as soon as it was out, the nonsense of her statement, and the fact that it sounded way too much like the colonel, made her realize just how tired she was.

"Well, not exactly, but," Daniel said, wondering why he had taken those ten rolls of tissue, "maybe."

"Daniel, I think this is a really important discovery. I mean it. This is…oooof, big. But can we have this conversation another time?" she asked. If her calculations were correct, she had approximately five minutes to reach her quarters before she passed out.

Daniel considered her request, blinked and nodded. "Sure. I'm not sure either of us will remember it, though."

"Mores the pity." Sam dredged up her last ounce of energy and forced herself to stand. She arched her back, her hands pressed to her hips, and yawned.

"Hitting the hay?" Daniel asked.

"Any crop will do," she said, slinking out of the room.

"Sam?"

"Yes, Daniel."

"How smart was Jonas?"

Sam's attention perked up at that. She cocked her head to the side and closed her eyes, confounded by the question. "I'm sorry? How smart was Jonas?"

"Yes." Daniel stared at his hands in his lap, so he wouldn't unwittingly show Sam the self-doubt in his mind.

"Uh," she stammered, leaning against the doorjamb, "he was…Honestly, Daniel, he was brilliant. He had an unnerving ability to learn quickly, an insatiable curiosity, and a quick wit. You met him. You knew that."

"Yeah, I know, but I wanted to hear it from you."

Sam looked him over, the lines in his brow, the tension in his jaw. Was this what the past weeks had been about? "Daniel—"

"No, it's okay. I was just wondering about it, that's all."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said, nodding, as if he were trying to convince himself.

"Okay, well…"

"Would SG1 have been better off with Jonas?"

It took her breath away. She stared at him, slack-jawed and nonplussed.

"Daniel?"

"Forget it, Sam. I'm…tired, I suppose. Forget I said anything."

"Daniel?"

"Sam," he said, turning to face her, having exposed his fear already to her. "Can we talk another time, when we're both rested, maybe?"

"Sure."

"I think something's percolating in…there," Daniel said, tapping his forehead for the inappropriately timed comic relief. The levity, however, quickly turned somber and he rubbed his aching brow instead. "I think I need a little time to sort some things out."

"Okay."

"Sam?"

"Yes."

"It was the right choice."

"What was?"

"Putting the kibosh on going back there. I'm not sure that what I'm looking for is there, anyhow."

"I don't think so, either."

"Sleep well."

"You, too." Sam gave him one last concerned look, offered him a forlorn smile and stepped out of the room. Daniel slowly pivoted his chair to peer out over the embarkation room, and to wonder exactly where he would find the answers to his own questions.

**Jack woke to the smell of sausages** cooking over the stove, their juices crackling against the hot oil. He lifted his head from his pillow, and for a brief, disconcerting moment thought his mom's ghost was hanging out in the cabin. What he found was no less terrifying—Teal'c in a gingham apron, holding a cast iron skillet and smiling at Jack.

"Good morning, O'Neill," he said, bowing his head. "Norbert of the Log Cabin Party Store assured me these pork and beef-filled links would make a…rather tasty breakfast meal."

"You've been down to the Log Cabin this morning?" Jack asked, one eye covered by the loft of his pillow.

"I have, indeed." Teal'c forked three of the links onto each of the plates. He set the plates on the small chrome and Formica dinette table, next to cups of coffee and a stack of toast. "I have also been out partaking of an early morning swim in your lake."

Jack sat up, blinked the sleep out of his eyes, and said, "Wasn't it cold?"

"Extremely."

Jack watched the proceedings from his place on the old sofa where he had slept the night before. It took a good minute or two before he was able to formulate any thoughts beyond groggy impressions, and when he did he decided the sausages smelled way too tempting. "Wanna share?"

"I thought we'd breakfast together, and then decide what our day should entail."

"Our day?" Jack asked, feeling tight and achy from the sleeping arrangements.

"There is much I wish to explore. There is much for us to talk about."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Maybe Norbert could show you around."

"He cannot." Teal'c began cracking eggs over the skillet, two at a time. Jack watched the entire dozen drop into the hot skillet.

"When'd you learn to cook?"

"Cassandra has given me many cooking lessons," Teal'c said, his chest puffing out with pride.

"You took cooking lessons from Cassie?" Jack said, hoisting himself from the sofa. "You realize Cassie learned to cook from Fraiser, not to mention she's kind of not from this world."

"Nor am I, O'Neill."

"I realize that, believe me, but haven't you ever been to dinner at their house?"

"I find their food as satisfying as their company," Teal'c said, scrambling the eggs in the skillet.

"Yeah, I'll bet." Jack reached for chairs, tabletops and bookshelves along the short path from the sofa to the dinette, wincing along the way.

"Is your injury producing pain this morning?"

"Along with other things, yes."

"I believe you are not receiving enough physical activity. You are allowing your muscles around the site to atrophy, thereby resulting in your morning discomfort."

Jack lowered his body into one of the chairs and smirked. "Cassie giving you lessons in physical therapy, as well?"

"I do not require lessons in basic physiology." Teal'c brought the skillet, popping with hot scrambled eggs, to the table. He scraped some onto Jack's plate, and the rest onto his. Jack looked at the unequal proportions and frowned. Teal'c set the pan in the sink and joined Jack at the table.

"Manga, O'Neill," Teal'c said, smothering his eggs with salt and pepper.

Jack, disgruntled by the meager amount of eggs he was given, stabbed one of Teal'c's sausage links and emptied it onto his plate. He narrowed his eyes and glared at Teal'c. Teal'c bowed and began eating.

And it was good. Crisp casings on the sausages, light, fluffy eggs, toast rich with butter, and good strong coffee. The only thing that could have possibly made it better was if Jack had been enjoying it on his own, without a meddling alien at his side. Of course, Jack conceded that he would have never made such a big breakfast left to his own devices. Who's kidding whom, he thought. He wouldn't have had breakfast.

"This doesn't mean I'm glad you came up here, you know," Jack said over his coffee cup.

"I understand."

Jack chewed more of the sausage, eyeing Teal'c with what he hoped was a glowering stare.

Teal'c rose from his seat and stepped to the counter, and when he did, Jack took his last sausage link. "Forgive me for having let this slip my mind, O'Neill, but Alise, Norbert's wife, sent along a jar of cherry jam." Teal'c returned it to the table and found his plate missing his link. He raised one eyebrow and pelted Jack with the look one reserves for petulant children. Jack returned an appropriately petulant expression, biting off the end of the sausage link. "Indeed."

"So, Teal'c," Jack said, "when did you say you were leaving this morning?"

Teal'c shoveled in a mouthful of eggs and looked out the window to the lake. "There is a small vessel out by the dock. Is it sea worthy?"

"That depends on what sea you're thinking of setting sail," Jack said. "Might I suggest the Caspian?"

"Do you have oars?" Teal'c asked, slathering his toast with cherry jam.

"You're avoiding my question."

"I am not avoiding."

"Yes, you are."

"I am ignoring."

"Well, that's not very nice."

"Do you have oars?"

"When are you leaving?"

"It is my conviction that you are in need of physical activity. Utilizing your upper-body strength to maneuver a small water craft would be highly beneficial."

"After breakfast, then?"

"Norbert feels confident in the fact that today's weather will be as pleasing as yesterday's," Teal'c said. "Your eggs are losing their heat."

"Getting cold, Teal'c," Jack said, correcting him. Jack felt his frustration level rising once again. He put down his utensils, pushed away from the table, and gave pause to the anger building inside. "Look, I'm sure you thought this was a good idea. And who knows, maybe it is, but, Teal'c, I'd really like to be left alone. Got it?"

"Yes, you have told me that many times over the course of the last twenty hours."

Jack's fist slammed the dinette table. "Then where's the confusion, dammit?"

Teal'c stabbed a forkful of eggs, took a bite of his toast, and kept his focus on the languid vision of the lake. "I have measured the distance from the cabin to the main road, in increments of kilometers. I believe this afternoon we will begin with one kilometer and back."

"Teal'c, I swear to God!" Jack growled.

"You may do whatever you please to your god, O'Neill. It is of no consequence to me."

Jack glared hard at the man, his hands fisted on the table, his skin sizzling with anger. "Now I'm asking you, Teal'c, to get out, or—"

"Or what, O'Neill?" Teal'c said, slowly turning to face his friend. "Will you strike me as you struck DanielJackson?"

Jack set his jaw, stubborn and ornery as a bulldog. "Teal'c…"

"I do not believe you will."

"You sure about that?"

Teal'c dabbed a paper napkin to his lips, placed it on the table and rose to his feet. He laid his dark, foreboding eyes on Jack, and his words rumbled from his lips. "If striking me is what you must do, please be advised that I will not be caught off guard, and I will strike back."

Jack began to tremble. He was trapped in his own home, trapped in his old and ineffectual body. Trapped with the one person who wouldn't back down from him. His air came to him through what seemed like gauze, and his vision began to gray. He needed to get away, and now.

"I'm not hungry anymore," he said, and limped out of the room.

Teal'c waited until he heard the door of the cabin slam, and calmly he sat down and finished his breakfast.

**He had managed to stay away** from the cabin for most of the day, and Jack resented the hell out of that. It was his home, dammit, and he was being chased out of it, just like everywhere else.

He had thought about finding a place to hunker down in the forest. After all, thirty odd years in the field meant you could be comfortable, if need be, in any terrain, but he didn't need to be. He didn't even want to be. He had a bed and warm clothes, and, if he was lucky, a couple minutes of hot water waiting for him in his cabin.

He also had Teal'c.

Well, fine, he thought. If Teal'c wanted to stay, so be it. Jack didn't have to answer any of his questions, and Jack didn't have to waste his time trying to be a good host, not that he was. Teal'c had made dinner the night before, breakfast that morning, and Jack was fairly sure he had heard Teal'c chopping wood in the afternoon.

Wood for a fire. Jack could be sitting in the warmth of his cabin, his feet near the belly of the wood stove, a beer in his hand. He could be just as happy and content with Teal'c there by following one simple rule—ignore every word and every gesture.

One quick stop on the edge of the dock to grab a beer—better make it two—and he'd put Operation Silent Night into effect. When he stepped into the cabin, Jack kept his focus on the floor, not wanting to make even casual eye contact with Teal'c. He put both beers on the end table next to the tufted wingback chair, and lowered his tired body into it. Even with the feel of a few gouging springs under the time-compressed cushion, Jack closed his eyes and luxuriated in the familiar comfort of the chair. He reached across for a beer, opened it, and downed a third in the first swallow.

No sign of Teal'c. Maybe Jack had made himself clear. Maybe he was finally alone. Good. He needed the quiet, the space. He needed it to spread out his thoughts, far and wide, and try to make sense of what the hell had happened to his life. He couldn't do that with Teal'c in the way.

What had happened to his life? In the span of a few short weeks, his body was broken, his spirit, too, and his command taken away from him.

Jack dropped his aching head into his hand and tried to think of nothing. Nothing at all, and maybe he could just get on with the business of a life without purpose, without meaning. Many people eked out such existences, and they seemed happy enough. Jack could do it if he set his mind to it. If people would leave him alone, he could do it.

The aged floorboards creaked, the dusty bottles standing on the shelves softly jingled, and the sound of Teal'c's voice shattered any of Jack's illusions of peace and renewal

"I have been reading some of the books here in your cabin, O'Neill. Quite interesting." Teal'c brought a stack of books, ten high tucked against his body, into the main room of the small cabin. "I find I am rather taken by the poetry books, especially one Robert Frost." Teal'c lowered the stack of books to the floor and took a seat, cross-legged, next to them. "His words are, at first reading, very simplistic. Upon further reading, I find the subtlety of his thematic representations to be insightful in the extreme."

The only part of Teal'c's entire speech that caught Jack's attention was the part where he said he had found books in the cabin. Jack had no idea where he might have found books. To Jack's knowledge he'd never seen a book, and newspapers were brought to the cabin only to start fires. The search for knowledge through written word had never been part of his tradition in the cabin. Knowledge through solitude, on the other hand, had been part of that tradition. Knowledge through vast amounts of beer-another solid tradition. Having to be ushered into personal enlightenment by a wall of a man quoting iambic pantaloons was definitely not on the list of established rituals.

"One poem, in particular, has captured my imagination."

Jack drank his beer and looked at the cobwebs that laced the corners of the cabin. In the morning he'd wrap an old dishrag around the top of a broom and get rid of them. Or not. What did it really matter in the great big scheme of things?

"The name of the poem is 'Bereft.' Perhaps you are familiar with this poem."

The smell of rot was gone in the cabin. Jack was glad for that. It was still a little musty, but he could live with musty. He finished his bottle of beer, cracked open the second and took a swig.

Teal'c thumbed the pages of the old, crackled book, found his poem, and began to read. "'Where had I heard this wind before change like this to a deeper roar?'" Teal'c looked up to find Jack picking the label off his beer. "'What would it take my standing there for, holding open a restive door, looking down hill to a frothy shore? Summer was past and day was past. Somber clouds in the west were massed. Out in the porch's sagging floor, leaves got up in a coil and hissed, blindly struck at my knee and missed.'"

Jack brought the bottle to his lips and tipped it high. If he had to listen to poetry, he was going to be drunk doing it. He thought about making a snide comment about having another man read poetry to him—something base about hoping Teal'c would at least stay for breakfast the next morning—but he thought Teal'c wouldn't understand the inference, and Jack certainly didn't want Teal'c to stay, especially because he misunderstood a joke. So he remained taciturn. He took the bottle top and snapped it with his fingers, flinging the piece of metal across the room, toward the pot-bellied stove.

Teal'c took his dark eyes off the pages for a moment to glance at his friend. Jack never met his eye, nor gave any indication he was listening, but Teal'c knew that at least a part of him was hearing the words. The part of him that had called out to Teal'c in the silence of his meditation. Knowing the desperation in Jack's soul, Teal'c read on. "'Something sinister in the tone told me my secret must be known: Word I was in the house alone somehow must have gotten abroad, word I was in my life alone, word I had no one left but God.'"

The images hovered in the still air, only to be interrupted by the crackling fire. Teal'c studied the printed words a moment longer, greatly impressed by the author's insight. Jack drank the rest of his beer.

"What is your secret, my friend?" Teal'c asked, his voice as soft and deep as the midnight sky. And although Teal'c didn't look up from the book, Jack knew Teal'c was no longer reading, but directing the question at him. "Do you even know?"

For his part, Jack wouldn't be offering up any secrets, nor would he sit there ruminating just who the hell he did or didn't have left in his life.

Teal'c closed the book, his hand remaining on the cover in honor of the art within. His head began to nod, a mournful smile, born of wisdom and friendship, graced his lips. "You are not alone, my friend. As long as I am able to take breath, you will have my allegiance and my friendship. You are never alone."

Jack pursed his lips and sucked air in through his teeth. His eyes narrowed, and he decided he'd had enough of the hearts and flowers for one night. He positioned his cane in front of him and used it to leverage himself out of his seat. He neither looked at Teal'c nor paused when he passed him on the way to the adjacent room. The heavy pine door clicked behind him, and Teal'c knew full well that his pained friend had heard and understood the meaning of the words and the depth of their friendship.


	5. Chapter 5

Sursum Corda-Chapter Five

**Janet scanned the room**, looking for Sam, and when she found her, Janet smiled to the hostess.

"Hey," Janet said, sliding into the booth. She chucked her purse in the corner and flagged down the waiter.

"I got here a little early," Sam said. She pushed her empty martini glass to the edge of the table.

"Yeah, I'll say." Janet ran both hands through her hair, sighing heavily. "What a day. What a week!"

"Tell me about it," Sam said. The waiter reached their table, and Sam was the first to order. "I'll have another one of these," she said, tapping the empty glass. Janet looked into the depths of the glass and asked what it was she had. "Bomb Pop Martini."

"Bomb pop? Like the Popsicle?" Janet asked.

Sam used her finger and thumb to show the stack up of the different ingredients in her drink. "Grenadine. Vodka. Curacao."

"Sounds…" Janet began, eyeing Sam with a bit of skepticism. "Tell you what," she said, turning to the waiter, "let me have a serious drink first, like Beefeaters on the rocks, then I'll consider a Bomb Pop Martini."

"Coming right up," he said, and walked away.

Janet rolled her eyes, ready to launch into an apology for her drink choice. "It's just that I've had a long day, and I need a little more kick to my drink right now."

"I've been here for half-an-hour. I've done my serious drink already," Sam said, pressing into the padded back of the booth. "A shot of Cuervo, followed by another shot of Cuervo."

"Sounds like we've both had a winner of a week."

"Couple of weeks."

"So, what's first on the agenda?" Janet asked. "Oh, and do we want something to eat with the drinks?"

"I'm fine," Sam said, twirling a stem between her fingers. "I've had cherries."

"And a year's allotment of red dye, no doubt."

"There was a time when I could tie a knot in a cherry stem using only my tongue," Sam told her, staring intently at the flaming red stem.

"And you said you weren't popular at the Academy." Janet raised one eyebrow and smiled at Sam.

Sam smiled back at the thought, tossed the stem onto the table, and sighed. "It feels good to get out of there."

"I know what you mean."

"First on the agenda."

"Right. First on the agenda."

"Colonel O'Neill."

"Right," Janet said, lowering her eyes, wondering how long they had before the new rank went into effect. "Colonel O'Neill."

"So, what's the deal with him?"

"I can tell you from a physician's point of view that he had a serious trauma and that he's doing remarkably well," Janet offered, not exactly telling Sam anything she didn't already know. "Personally, though? I think he has a lot on his plate, not excluding the fact that something happened…out there, in the field, that…well, changed him."

"Do you have any idea what it was?" Sam asked, leaning toward her friend.

"I wish I knew. You better believe the colonel isn't saying anything."

"You know, Daniel really wanted to go back there, see if we could find anything, but…" Sam stopped, shook her head.

"Ladies," the waiter said, placing Janet's drink on the table, followed by Sam's. "Enjoy."

"Thank you," they both said. Janet twirled the drink in her hand, chilling the gin before taking a sip. Sam picked up her glass with both hands and sipped from it, like water from her gathering palms.

"Here's to the boys," Janet said, holding out her drink.

Sam pulled her glass away from her lip, brushed her hand under her chin, and toasted to her teammates. "The boys."

"Can't live with them—"

"Can't shower with them, either."

"Here, here." Both women drank to their shared misery.

Janet was the first to put her half-drunk glass down. "So. Daniel. Number two on the agenda?"

"I guess we're moving right along." Sam closed her eyes, tired and worn thin by the stress. She laid her hand over the base of her martini glass and brushed her other hand across her clavicle, and enjoyed how nearly desensitized her skin had become from the drinks.

"So what's going on with Daniel?"

"What's not going on with him?" Sam asked, rolling her neck first one way, then the other. "He's obsessed with going back to…that place; he's turned into a klepto…"

"What?"

Sam's eyes flew open at the sound of such incredulity in Janet's voice, and if it weren't for the fact that she was truly concerned for Daniel, she might have laughed out loud. "Have you been in his lab recently? I went in there a couple days ago, and I found one of Siler's huge wrenches."

"Maybe Siler left it in the lab."

Sam grimaced, and said, "I don't think so. Let me ask you something—have you been missing equipment lately?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe a few instruments, a couple bags of saline. Nothing too important."

"Check his lab."

"But why would he…"

Sam grabbed hold of the edge of the table, leaned into it, almost knocking over her drink. Janet moved it farther toward the center of the table. Sam said, emphasizing each word, "He has a stockpile of tongue depressors."

"Okay. Well, maybe he uses them on some of his digs," Janet said, shrugging her shoulders, taking another sip of her drink.

"Then how do you account for the case of petroleum jelly I found under his desk last week?"

"He's lonely?"

Sam's brow knitted, her mouth slung open. She stared at Janet, and at her hands clapped over her eyes. The two women began to laugh, loud and long, at Daniel's expense.

Janet clanked her glass onto the table, reached forward and tapped Sam's hand, hardly able to breathe. "Do you think he might want an old blood pressure cuff to go along with the Vaseline?"

Sam wiped away the tears under her eyes. "Now I really don't want to know why he had all that toilet paper stacked up next to his desk."

Janet howled with laughter, brought her hands to her chest and almost fell over.

"Oh, my gawd! Oh, my!" Sam laughed. "I don't mean to make fun of him, but…"

"But he is Daniel."

"And if nothing else, he is a guy."

"In such a big way," Janet added.

Sam's laughter began to diminish, along with her drink. "He's a guy, who's aggravating as hell, totally exasperating…"

"Don't forget stubborn," Janet said, toasting to the sentiment.

"Oh, no kidding!" Sam shook her head. "I gotta tell ya, Janet, some days, I'd like to just…"

"Slap him."

"Some days, yes!"

"Like the colonel did." Janet's expression turned somber, her dark eyes wide open, watching for Sam's reaction.

Sam's drink froze midpoint between the table and her lips, so too did the breath in her lungs.

"Don't worry, Sam, it's between you and me. It goes no further."

"How did you know?"

Janet rolled her eyes and flipped her hand through the air. "Oh, please. Give me some credit for seeing the obvious."

"Daniel didn't deserve being hit, but I can absolutely see how it happened." Sam laid her arms on the table and sighed. "It's no secret that Daniel can be rather…focused," she said, pointing with both hands down an imaginary vanishing point. "But ever since we came back from—"

"Careful."

"—from our mission, Daniel's been completely obsessed. And that's not all!"

"I'll have another. Less ice, this time," Janet told the passing waiter.

For a moment, Sam had a hard time deducing why Janet was saying that to her—there was quite enough alcohol in her system to befuddle even the genius astrophysicist. She blinked and took another sip. Janet looked at her for a while, and decided somewhere in the last few seconds Sam had lost the thread of their conversation.

"That's not all?" Janet prompted.

"Exactly!"

"What's not all?"

"The other things Daniel's been doing!"

"Like what, Sam?" Janet patiently asked.

"Like…" Sam took a quick recon of the room. "Like he's been asking about Jonas, and was Jonas smarter than him, was Jonas a better team member. That kind of stuff."

Janet made a sound, a cross between gurgling and choking on a rancid piece of cheese.

"What am I supposed to tell him, Janet?"

"I think the real question is, why does he want to know?"

"It all is connected, somehow. The stealing, the obsession, the self-doubt—somewhere in his irksome little brain, it's all connected." Sam tossed back the end of her drink, and with it the cherry.

"Careful there, Major."

Sam swallowed and chewed, and began to pull a series of faces. She stared with great intent at Janet, craning her neck and her jaw, first one direction, then the other. One eye would wink, the other would flicker. Janet looked on with growing concern.

"Sam?"

Sam lifted a finger, but continued on, her lips puckered. Finally, she lifted her hands to her lips and pulled from her mouth a knotted cherry stem.

"Still got it."

"And the men fall to their knees," Janet said, watching the stem flip into the empty glass.

"That's my little calling card," Sam said, pointing to her handiwork at the bottom of her glass. "I think the waiter's hot."

"I think the waiter's gay, and the only thing he'll read from your calling card is that you don't have the right equipment."

"Speaking of hot…" Sam settled back into the booth, her arms outstretched across the top. "What's the deal with you and Teal'c?"

"Ah, yes. Number three on the agenda."

"You realize he's old enough to be your…" Sam paused for a minute while her vodka-addled brain worked through the necessary math, "…your great, great, great grandfather."

"So I suppose he has a lot to teach me," Janet said with a wink.

"Oh, please! Really? You have the hots for Teal'c?"

"Surely the sight of that incredible body hasn't sent you off into fantasy land a time or two," Janet said.

Sam thought about it, melted a little in her indignity, rolled her eyes and said, "Maybe a time or two, but…Junior?"

"He doesn't have Junior anymore."

"But there's still the…thing there. I don't know. I'd always be thinking about…it. I mean, ewww."

Janet glanced up at the waiter who had delivered her drink. She thanked him and waited an appropriate time before she began to speak again. "Well, where Junior was concerned, I think it would have been …interesting."

"Interesting."

Janet brought her drink to her lips and said, "In a three-way kind of thing."

"Ewww!" Sam cried. "Ewww, ewww, ewww, ewww! Ewwwwwww!"

Janet's drink almost left via her nose. She forced herself to remain calm enough to swallow before laughing.

"That's just…wrong, Janet!" Sam said, shielding her eyes.

"I'm kidding, Sam. Relax!"

Sam wriggled her entire torso, trying to shake out the willies. "That just makes my skin crawl."

"Listen, aside from that, I wouldn't throw him out of bed for eating crackers."

Sam closed her eyes and thought that one over. "Okay. What?"

"Nothing, Sam. I'm just saying, I'd be…receptive to an offer, or a gesture, or…a…caress…"

"Really? Teal'c?"

"Yes, Teal'c!"

"I just don't get it."

"It's called personal chemistry."

"It's called weird."

"I'm a woman, he's a-"

"Can we talk about something else?" Sam begged, closing her eyes, as if not having to see Janet would somehow close off audio contact.

Janet giggled, smoothed out the front of her skirt, tucked it tighter around her legs. "That's fine."

"Here's what I want to know," Sam said, plunking her chin in her hand. "When do things get back to normal?"

"Define normal."

Sam sighed, and her head leaned a little to the side. "The four of us, with Colonel O'Neill back in charge."

She has no idea, Janet thought…

How much information could Janet allude to? What could she say to her friend? Janet felt split in two—the military woman, who was under orders to keep information tightly capped, and Sam's friend, who wanted to give her friend a head's up about how the major's life was going to change dramatically. What could she say?

"Sam, what if the colonel—and, again, this is just a 'what if'—what if the colonel decides not to return to field operations?"

"I don't see that happening," Sam said, and Janet had to bite her lip in order to squelch the response that might put her in front of a disciplinary board. She decided to take a different direction.

"Sam, when you were in officer's training school, did you prepare yourself to rise in rank? Did you prepare yourself to take on added responsibility with each of your promotions?"

"Yes, of course. I did when I was promoted to major, but…"

"Sam, there's a reason for everything, especially in the military. Albeit, those reasons can be a little hard to understand, nevertheless, there are reasons. You, of all people, should know that."

"Janet, what are you getting at?"

"I'm just saying, in all your years as an officer in the Air Force, haven't you been preparing to take command?"

"Well, sure, I guess, but…"

"No buts. At any given time, an officer has to be ready to assume command. Either you are, or you're not." Janet locked eyes with Sam, and knew Sam was fully engaged enough to understand each and every word. "You've prepared your entire career to lead. At some point, you'll be given command of a team. Whether that's next week or next year, are you prepared? Are you willing?"

Sam felt the flood of pride and stubbornness pour through her body, straightening her spine. "I am."

"Then don't worry about what's normal, or what has been. Leadership changes, you know that. Just be prepared to step in when it's your time," Janet said, and with that, she finished her drink and hoped she hadn't breeched too many levels of protocol.

Sam kept her focus on Janet for a moment longer, thinking about what she had been told. She had felt out of control in the last few weeks, careening down a path that made no sense. Perhaps it was that she had forgotten the most important tenant of military life—that the succession of leadership can happen in the blink of an eye. Perhaps she was comfortable in the role of 2IC. Too comfortable. Perhaps that was what had fueled her angst in the last weeks.

"You're right," she said, nodding. "What's going to happen is going to happen."

"And?"

"And I am absolutely prepared to deal with it. Whatever it is."

"Good," Janet said. You'll need to be…

**Jack, always the optimist**, hoped that the quiet around the cabin this late in the morning meant that Teal'c had left. And, yeah, the fact that he had left without first making Jack breakfast kind of bugged Jack, but he'd deal with it. There was still pre-packed blueberry pie somewhere on the counter. Dunk it in milk, and that's a well-rounded breakfast.

When he had left Teal'c and his poetry in the living room the night before, Jack retired to one of the tiny rooms that under no circumstance could be classified a bedroom. With just enough room to remove your pants (if you leaned over the cot) and kick off your boots (if your closed the door), it was nothing more than an enclosure that held a lumpy mattress on a rudimentary frame. Far too constricting to call cozy, and just this side of solitary confinement cell, Jack had always tried to spend as few conscious minutes in the room as possible. Utilitarian to the nth degree, the place was meant to room exhausted hunters/fishermen/vacationers, not be a place for self-reflection.

He had tried to find that one elusive position which would allow his body to rest comfortably. It wasn't the bedding that ruined his sleep, it was the pitch black that enveloped him. It was the view from his pillow out the tiny window and up to the inky darkness, littered with pinpoints of light. Rationally, he knew he was viewing the night sky. But in that place where all fears and self-doubt flourish, nourished by fatigue, he could only see the eyes. The faint trace of a satellite became one of Them passing through the room. The rare sight of jet lights flickering became the instrumentation They pointed at him. The one desperate moment that his body did capitulate to his exhaustion and twitched, became that moment when he was falling from an unspecified height, only to crash against rock and slip into a different kind of darkness. Jack gasped at the memory, rushed to his feet, the adrenalin muting the pain in his hip. Banging into the wall with a solid thump and nearly tripping over the cot legs, it took a moment for him to orient himself. He pressed his shaking and sweaty palms to the wall, his head between his outstretched fingers, and listened to the hammering of his heartbeat.

It was ridiculous. He had come to the cabin to escape, to rest, and what he had found was a continuation of the same. What he had found was that he and the cabin were beyond repair.

At 0128, he loped to the kitchen and took one of his pain pills. He didn't relish the thought of having to resort to medication, but he supposed, with harsh resignation, that that's what all the popular kids at the retirement village were doing these days.

He woke up later that morning, almost exactly eight hours later, feeling if not refreshed, then at the very least rested. He made a pot of coffee using the 1970 era Mr. Coffee—the one modern convenience everyone agreed was not just essential, but imperative—took his cup out the back door and was greeted by another beautiful spring morning, which made no impression whatsoever on Jack other than he had to wipe the dew off his chair before he sat down, dammit.

Sitting alone in the Adirondack chairs he had helped build decades ago with his father, Jack wondered if it would be possible to sleep outside when the night came again. No confined spaces, no lingering mildewed smell. Of course, the down shot of it was that he wouldn't be entertained by another Jaffa Jam Poetry Reading.

"Bereft, my ass," Jack muttered, a sneer crept across his face. He took a sip of his coffee, briefly enjoyed the dichotomy of the warm steam against his cool skin. Looked out over the lake, and saw what he thought was a brown bear trundling through the trees a few feet in from shore. Jack brought the cup to his lips again, never taking his eyes off the bear, a huge one, at that. On his hind legs. Running.

"Teal'c." Jack rolled his eyes and prepared himself for the morning's homily.

Arms and legs pumping, glistening with sweat, Teal'c glided through the woods, effortlessly hurdling fallen branches, crouching without slowing under sloped tree trunks. When he reached the edge of the property, he stopped. Looked to the blue sky, his arms reaching out to the side, to the world that surrounded him. His chest expanded, funneled up with each breath, each rivulet of perspiration gleaming like silver ribbons across his skin. He stood planted in that spot, this structure of a man, reaching, breathing, and securing his place within the cosmos. After a moment, he leaned over to untie his boots.

A part of Jack was hurt that Teal'c hadn't seen him sitting there. More so, he was relieved that Teal'c hadn't asked him to join him in his morning Touchy, Tai Sheet, something, whatever.

Teal'c picked up his boots, padded across the overgrown lawn, placed his boots at the edge of the dock, and stopped. He pivoted toward the cabin, smiled at Jack, bowed his head in salutation, and lunged toward the end of the dock, sailing through the air, breaking the glassy surface of the lake.

Even Jack had to admit it held a certain enviable style.

Forty yards out, Teal'c's torso penetrated the surface again, rocketing out of the lake with an explosive, "Yee haaaaw!" before sinking back down. Rising again, Teal'c turned to his back, and began an unhurried, relaxed backstroke to the dock. Reaching the edge, Teal'c raised himself, his arms and chest bulging under the weight. He strode off the dock, picked up his boots and stopped in front of Jack, dripping wet and blocking the colonel's sun.

"Yee haw?" Jack said, squinting at the aura cast around the Jaffa.

"I believe it to be an appropriate expression of exhilaration, is it not?" Teal'c said.

"I guess."

"It is a glorious morning, O'Neill."

"I wouldn't know. You're blocking my sun."

Teal'c stepped aside and took a seat next to Jack, his heart rate not yet slowed. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the morning sun on his body. Jack pulled the fleece collar closer to his ears, casting a silent, depreciatory glare at Teal'c.

"Several months ago, DanielJackson gave me a book on comparative religions," Teal'c said, brushing the lake water off his chest and arms. Jack turned his shoulder away from the spray of water. "My intention was to edify myself as to the different aspects of Tau'ri religious experiences. Would you like to know my conclusion?"

"Just with every fiber of my being."

Teal'c raised an eyebrow, hearing the sarcasm, and yet ignoring it. "I found the history of Christianity reads much like the history of the system lords, each sect vying for power and allegiance, each promoting theirs as the one, true religion."

Without the glowing eyes thing, Jack thought to say, but that would send the message that he was listening. Which he wasn't. He and religion had made peace with each other long ago—he didn't bother with it, and for the most part, save for when the zealots ended up at his door, it didn't bother him. It was better that way. His childhood had been one long lesson in what he considered were, if not inconsistencies, out right fantasies. It didn't matter which language you said it in, those prayers and recitations were still only allegories that seemed to widen the eyes of the superstitious. "I dreamt that St. Francis came to me last night, and he said…" Nope, he didn't need it, and when it came right down to it, his casting off of organized religion had served him very well in his tenure at the SGC, thank you ever so much.

Teal'c grabbed his shirt from the side of the chair, where he had placed it before his run, and pulled it over his head. "Many lives have been lost throughout the centuries in the name of your gods."

"God, Teal'c. Not gods."

"Indeed, you support my argument quite succinctly," Teal'c said, and Jack made a note not to be so easily dragged into a topic he cared nothing about, nor to which he had anything to offer. "The Tau'ri history is quite diverse in its beliefs, as well as in its gods—Theism, deism, pantheism, polyism, monotheism. There are the gods of Greece and Rome, of the Hindi and Buddhists. There are the spirits of the native people, and the anthropomorphism of the Norse gods. Entire empires have been built on beliefs, as well as destroyed. Whole generations of people have been annihilated by religious fervor. Much of your own country is split between what is the Christ, and what is merely a prophet, between—"

"What's your point, Teal'c?"

"The point, as you say, is we are all followers and defenders of our beliefs." Teal'c turned his head in time to see Jack bring his hand to his closed eyes. "In context of your history, I myself would have been considered a crusader."

"Not a saint?" Jack asked, taking the time to glare for a moment at the man seated next to him.

"Far from it, O'Neill," Teal'c said. "Following one's beliefs is not a mistaken exercise. It is our actions toward each other that distinguish between right and wrong." Teal'c pushed himself out of the chair, the exposed skin on his arms and chest chilled.

"Where the Goa'uld system lords and your faiths differ, of course, is that Abraham and his descendents made a covenant with God in which they would prosper and be free if they served one another. It is the practice of surrendering one's burden toward a higher power, not to be enslaved, but to be enlightened. The Goa'uld only wish to place a yoke of slavery on those they encounter.

"You are free, O'Neill. You have served your people well. Will you not look inside your heart, now, to find what you believe? Will you not look inside your heart to find that which is your burden?"

"Oh, I am fully aware of what's burdening my heart, Teal'c," Jack said. "And soon, unless I find some Phazyme, you'll be fully aware of it, also, thanks to all those bean burritos."

"Dams will only divert the flow of a river for so long, and then they, too, break down," Teal'c said,

"Okay, in this particular Oma Desilu-ism, help me out here—am I the river or the dam?"

"Your burden is the river."

"Damn."

"I do not think you are completely comprehending my metaphor."

"No, I get it. I got it. In a non-existent word, it's gotten."

"And yet, you continue to mask your pain, deny the weight of your burden."

"If I could mask my pain, Teal'c, you'd be in full costume."

Teal'c looked away from Jack, his patience being sorely tested. "You carry a great burden—one that has become too much for you to carry alone. Why do you refuse to accept your limitations? As a warrior, you must be always aware of your own strengths and weaknesses. If you do not, your enemy will best you."

"You know what? Best this…"

"It is your anger that drives you now. It is a black and pathetic anger, of which no good will come. Can you not see this, O'Neill?" Teal'c asked.

"Anybody ever tell you you ask a lot of questions?" Jack said, rubbing circles on his tired eyes.

But Teal'c had slipped past Jack and into the cabin, where he would leave the colonel to his own questions, where he hoped his friend would begin to lift the yoke of his own enslavement.

**General Hammond rocked back and forth in his leather chair**, one hand pressed to his aching brow, the other holding the red phone to his ear.

"Yes, sir," he said, "you'll have my recommendations within the week. Yes, sir, I understand. Yes, I'm certain there are all sorts of reasons for such formalities. No, sir, I meant nothing by that."

For ten minutes, the general had been going over the schedule of events with the President, the event being the promotion of Jack O'Neill.

More like a funeral than a promotion, the general thought.

"Very well, sir," he said, nodding. General Hammond opened the file in front of him and jotted down a date. "You'll have it in plenty of time. Thank you, sir."

Hanging up the phone, General Hammond lifted the monitor of his computer and opened up a new file. He tapped out the perfunctory dates, the people to whom the document would be sent, the subject the memo was to regard, and the appropriate greeting.

And abruptly came to a complete stop.

He felt like a rabbit caught in a snare, whose only recourse was to chew off his own foot or be captured. Neither choice seemed palatable, nor did writing a recommendation for the promotion into obsolescence for Jack O'Neill.

Still, it had to be done, and the general had one hope that maybe the right words would draw the attention of the right person who would know how to best utilize the colonel's unique attributes.

The general doubted there was an office in the Pentagon for the Protection and Propagation of Snarky Barbs and Discourteous Responses. But if there were, Jack O'Neill would go far.

Truth be told, there were times when the general would have gladly shipped off the colonel to some far away base, let him cool his jets in somebody else's hangar. The man was foul-tempered, impatient, and at any given time, a step away from insubordinate.

And he was the finest damn officer General Hammond had ever had the pleasure of serving with. He commanded the respect of every officer on the base, and had done so with aplomb and a devil-may-care ignorance toward accepted protocol.

"In regards to the recommendation of the promotion of Colonel John O'Neill to the rank of Brigadier General, I respectfully submit my evaluation."

What was his evaluation? Promotion in rank was supposed to be a validation of outstanding leadership, of which there was no doubt Jack O'Neill possessed. It was supposed to be a celebration of the soldier, not a substantiation of his weakness.

"Colonel John O'Neill has served under my command for seven years, and in that time I have found him to be…"

Childish, stubborn, willful, mulish, xenophobic, intolerant, and occasionally dull-witted.

Also, tenacious, open-minded, supportive, powerful, determined and resourceful.

As well as a good friend.

He should be a brigadier general, Hammond thought, but not on their terms. General Hammond stared, disheartened, at the screen.

"I have found him to be…"

So many times Jack had teetered on that fine edge of being demoted, but the extreme circumstances of his actions (usually involving alien technology) always provided the general the necessary loophole to allow Jack to stay in command of his unit.

There was nothing standing in the way of promotion, however. Jack's record was one long list of composure under fire, inventive use of military power, and the unimpeachable devotion of his teammates. What could the general offer in his evaluation?

"I have found him to be the finest soldier and officer I have ever had the pleasure and honor to serve with. He is a credit to the Air Force, a credit to his country, and a patriot in the best sense of the word."

General Hammond saved the file, and thought he had had enough for the day.

**Jack gathered an armful of logs from the pile** and brought them to the back door of the cabin. They fell in a straggle from his arms, and he just sort of looked at them, nodded and went back for more.

"May I be of assistance, O'Neill?" Teal'c asked, meeting him at the pile.

"No." Jack loaded more logs, some maple, some birch, some pine, in his arms and turned to the cabin, his hip pinching with flares of pain. Undeterred, Teal'c piled logs into his own arms and followed the colonel to the cabin. Jack dropped his load, crouched down and began to form a more organized pile against the wall.

"O'Neill," Teal'c said, waiting to hand Jack his logs, "there is a question I wish to ask you."

"You don't say?" Jack glowered up at Teal'c, and, giving into the futility of it all, took Teal'c's logs, one by one.

"There is a phrase I believe that I have heard you speak several times since our return from our last mission," Teal'c said, deferring to the accepted cryptic method of referring to another planet while not in the security of the base, even though there was no one around for miles. "Once in the dregs of the conduit system; once while in the infirmary; once while you slept on the sofa inside your cabin."

The colonel stacked the logs, brushed off his hands, and looked at his watch. Just as he thought, 1837—time for a beer. He walked to the edge of the dock, his hand massaging his aching hip and lower back.

"You said sursum corda." Teal'c tilted his head, a benign, speculative gesture. "What is the meaning of those words?"

Jack took hold of the crusted chain and pulled the fish cage out of the water. Time was when he could tell you how cold the lake was at any given moment within a few degrees based on the temperature of his beer. He opened the cage and pulled out a beer, closed it back up, and watched it and the remaining beer listlessly sink to the murky lakebed. He'd need to make a trip to the Log Cabin later.

"What can you tell me, O'Neill?"

Jack twisted the top off his beer, took a sip, and said, "I can tell you that in another couple weeks the lake's not going to be cold enough for my beer."

"I am referring to the phrase I have heard you repeat." Teal'c waited for Jack to finish taking one draw after another off his beer. When Jack lowered his beer to the side, Teal'c said the words again.

"Sursum corda, O'Neill."

The late afternoon sun cast Jack's chiseled and tired features in gold, lightening his dark eyes. He took another long sip of his beer, and said, "You're asking me?"

"You are the one who spoke the words."

"Why don't you ask word-boy?"

"Shall we now speak of DanielJackson?"

"Sursum corda, you say?" Jack said, lifting his brow, glancing at Teal'c.

"That is correct."

"As in… 'Sir, some corda has spilled onto your tie'?"

"I do not believe that is the accepted manner of use."

"Then, nope. I got nothin'."

Teal'c turned to face the glowing sun, as well, and found he was growing increasingly weary of Jack's flip behavior. "I believe the term that best describes your present emotional state would be repression."

"And I believe you've been watching too much 'Oprah.'"

"I have significantly reduced my viewership of Oprah Winfrey's program."

"Glad to hear it. I was beginning to see a nasty side of your personality in the days that followed her 'favorite things' episodes."

"I believe it to be a vulgar display of decadence and materialism."

"So, this whole conversation about repression really sort of applies to you, doesn't it?"

"To what are you referring, O'Neill?"

"I'm referring to the fact that you haven't been able to be in the audience on those days, and you're just jealous."

The muscles in Teal'c's jaw contracted. "In the extreme."

"Okay, then."

"And what is it you are repressing, O'Neill?"

"I'm trying to repress this entire conversation." Jack poured more beer into his mouth.

"What memories or emotions are you repressing that might otherwise cause you pain or suffering?"

"Oh, I'm suffering, my friend," Jack said, snidely. He finished off the beer with one long draw, and threw the empty up onto the lawn.

"But suffering to bring memories and emotions into the light must be productive. I see no productive value in your time here."

"Oh, yeah? Why don't you watch this," Jack said, crouching with a wince to reel in the fish cage once again. He snagged the last beer, tossed the cage back in, and grimaced pushing himself back to his feet. "See that? I just suffered. It was highly productive, because now I have a fresh beer." Jack torqued the top off the beer and hammered it.

"You have drunk many beers. I believe this also assists you in the repression of your inner feelings."

"Okay," Jack said, choking the neck of his beer, the warmth of the sun in his eyes replaced by stony anger, "you know what? I've about had it with what you believe and what you don't believe. Got it?"

"Then tell me, O'Neill, what is it you believe in?"

Jack refused to let Teal'c manipulate him so easily. His best defense, he decided, was to rely on one of his greatest strengths—sarcasm. "What do I believe in? I believe in beer."

"I am asking about the present state in which you find yourself."

"Yes," Jack nodded, tipping his beer toward Teal'c, "I believe in Minnesota, too."

Teal'c rounded on Jack, and bellowed, "You are acting as a child, O'Neill! It is time you left behind this wallowing and pity, and regained your self-respect."

Jack was startled at the other man's sudden flare of anger, but he was damned if he'd show it. Actually, truth be told, Jack was surprised Teal'c had held out this long. Jack tossed up a hand between him and Teal'c, his face turned away in anger. "Teal'c, man, you need to step down."

"I will not."

Jack began to lumber off the dock, holding his beer close to his side, his emotions closer.

Teal'c followed on Jack's heels, growling out each word with deliberate emphasis. "When Apophis captured me and filled my mind with abhorrent thoughts, you would not allow me to remain in such a manner!"

"That was different."

"I was trapped, bound by hatred and fear, forced servitude and lies. I owe my life and my freedom to you and Master Bratac."

"You owe me nothing," Jack said, pausing to pick up the empty beer bottle. He wanted to do it casually, but he was stiff and sore, and so he bobbled in a wholly infuriating way. Teal'c reached for Jack's arm to steady him, but Jack would have none of it. He left the bottle on the ground, sprang up to his full height and bore into Teal'c with raging eyes. "Keep your hands off me, Teal'c. I don't need your help."

"You need much more than my help, O'Neill, however you are too stubborn to request my assistance."

"I'm not playing, Teal'c," Jack said, walking away from Teal'c.

"Something happened in the bowels of that planet that changed you, that continues to haunt you."

"Go home, Teal'c."

"And yet you refuse to face your fears. That is not like you, O'Neill."

"Don't care." Jack reached for the back door, and Teal'c grabbed his wrist, held it between them in his iron grip.

"Tell me, O'Neill, what did those creatures do to turn you into the coward I see before me."

Jack's held wrist curled to a fist, trembled with rage. Teal'c saw it, and unlocked his grip. He stepped away, held out his arms, taunting Jack, and berated him further with a sickening smile.

"Here I stand, O'Neill. Rain down your fury on me."

Jack's dark eyes were filled with hatred, with cold ferocity. His teeth ground together, and any words he might have spoken were caught in that clenched trap. His raised fist shook with murderous intent, with a barely restrained need to strike the man standing in front of him.

Teal'c lowered his arms and shook his head. "You will not strike me, O'Neill, and yet you struck DanielJackson."

"Stay out of it."

"I will not!" Teal'c barked, attacking the colonel's personal space. "You struck a civilian. More importantly, you betrayed a friendship, your friend. My friend! How can I allow such a flagrant and offensive act for which you are culpable go unquestioned?"

"You can question me all you want, Teal'c, but I'm done." Jack reached for the knob once again, but found his hand shaking greatly.

"What underlying tension brought you to such an action?" He grabbed a fistful of Jack's shirt and shook him. "Answer me!"

The back of Jack's hand sliced through the air, only to be ensnared by Teal'c's. Jack chewed the air that wouldn't come, his chest heaving from the sustained rigor. Sweat poured from his brow, down his back. His head swooned, his vision blurred.

"Let go of me, you son of a bitch," Jack choked out.

"Is your mind so lost that you have no control over your body?" Teal'c asked. He yanked on Jack's hand still caught in his powerful grip, pitching the colonel off-balance. His words came out explosively, sharp and biting. "With no other outlet for your anger, what shall you do?" Jack's eyes flashed with fear, his lips parted in preparation for words that had no meaning. Teal'c leaned in toward Jack, caught Jack's paralyzed expression in the beams of his piercing stare. "You are a coward, O'Neill, not because of your actions, and not because of what tragedy has befallen you. You are a coward because you dare not seek the truth."

Jack swallowed, nearly suffocating from the anger clamping shut his throat. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. "And you think you know what that truth is?"

"The truth is this: You are not omnipotent, and you are not infallible. You are a soldier." Teal'c spoke the words with equal parts compassion and indifference. He had Jack in that most vulnerable area—broken, trapped, and seeking redemption. Teal'c released Jack's arm with a flick, and took a step back. "It is your duty to face your enemy, and yet you have chosen to let your enemy defeat you. YOU have chosen this, O'Neill, not your enemy. Only you can beat back that enemy, but you choose not to because it would cause you to see your true self." His eyes ran up and down the entire length of Jack's trembling frame. When he spoke again, his words oozed out, his voice mirroring his disdain. "It is cowardice."

Jack stumbled, reached a blind hand behind him, and somehow came in contact with the chair. He collapsed into it; his vision grayed, his body shuddered, his limbs thrummed with fear.

Teal'c turned his back on Jack, filled with regret that it had come to this, and decided to put some distance between himself and his troubled friend.

And Jack stared out over the darkening horizon, his mind swirling like a cauldron of vile and putrid acid. His fingers dug into the old wood, while his soul was ripped away, shredded by long-suppressed apprehension.

Deep into the night he remained outside the cabin, able to venture only as far as the wobbling dock, and then back to the rickety chairs. Out to the dock, once again. The chairs, the dock, the cabin—all of it in shambles, all of it antiquated.

Deep into the night, where he battled his own sense of being antiquated.

**She had text-messaged him**—"Wr R U?"—ten minutes earlier, and was going to give it another few minutes before she paged him again. Sam had a MALP reading of their next planet to show Daniel, and was very much of the mindset that while waiting for the rest of their team to return, the half that had stayed on the base should actually earn their pay.

At least she thought it was a good idea. Daniel—well, Daniel had made himself scarce in the last day or so. Maybe he was entrenched in some complicated translation, all chalk dust and bookmarkers. Maybe he was in the gym working out-just another way to occupy his time since becoming corporeal again. The irony of it hadn't escaped Sam or Janet. It was a heartbreaking irony though-Daniel seemed to be trying to render himself as imposing and as solid as possible, as if he were afraid of disappearing again.

Not that Sam minded his more ripped and hardened body (particularly his arms). No, in fact she very much enjoyed making Daniel blush whenever she reached over to wrap both hands around his biceps. She'd squeeze his arm, pretend to swoon; he'd roll his eyes, and act as though he wasn't trying to flex. Then she'd punch him in the shoulder and make him earn the tough guy look. Daniel would rub his shoulder and say, "Um, ow!"

"Yeah, you're a real Arnold Schwartzenegger," she'd say.

"Yeah, and…and you're…" But Daniel, never well versed in popular culture, would be left blinking his eyes, shifting his weight, until Sam would laugh at him and change the subject, get on with the business at hand.

Which is exactly what she hoped to do at the end of this particular game of "Where's Daniel Now?" Sam yanked her pager off her belt, and was just about to text him again when it began to buzz in her hand—"Gate Rm."

"Stay," she messaged back, and began to walk. Thirty seconds later received another message—"K"—, which made her smile.

When she reached the gate room, Sam swiped her access card through the reader, and the doors whooshed open. She sauntered in, looked around the room, and didn't see him anywhere. She called out his name and heard him answer back, but the acoustics of the room swallowed up his voice and made it all but impossible to pinpoint his location.

"Where?" she asked, searching the room.

"Back here." Daniel's hand waved in the small nook between the gate and the ramp. Sam strode up the ramp, leaned over the railing, and found him sitting with his back against the pedestal of the Stargate.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey."

"What are you doin'?"

Daniel considered her question for a moment, scratched his head, and said, "Do you think I should get a dog?"

"A dog?"

"Or a cat."

"What about your fish?"

"Yeah," he said, drawing out the word for more than it was worth, while he thought about an answer. "It seems my department adopted my fish after my ascension. We're working out the custody details."

"Mind if I come down there?"

"My super-secret hideaway is your super-secret hideaway."

Sam climbed over the railing and jumped down to the floor. "What made you think to sit here?"

"Actually," he said, looking up at the Stargate above him, "it's one of the quieter spots on the base, except when the gate begins to dial. And the way I figure it, sitting behind the gate is just about the safest place in the mountain."

Sam mulled that one over—one-way travel through the gate. If there were an attack, the weapon blasts would automatically be directed away from the gate to the opposite wall. Yeah, she supposed he was right. She sat down next to him, brushed off her hands and nudged his shoulder with hers.

"You're not going to hit me again, are you?" he asked, casting a wary eye on her.

"Nah. You've been smacked around enough lately."

"Thank you, " he said. Sam smiled and shifted closer, but not too close. Daniel's eyes fluttered, and a memory tried to come to the surface. A fleeting one of a time when he and Sam had shared such a close friendship, one with such ease that more often than not, some part of their bodies had been touching with casual familiarity. Only now, sitting beside him, Daniel noticed that Sam seemed tense, uncertain in his presence. Daniel suddenly missed their former closeness, and at the same time accepted it as one of those things that inevitably and irrevocably changes.

He glanced at her drawn face, and attempting to lighten the heavy quality surrounding them, he fluttered his hand around to indicate the gate room. "Did you ever notice that the Feng Shui in this room is entirely off?"

"Gee, Daniel, you know, that's never really been a big concern of mine."

"I suppose it's neither here nor there."

"I suppose."

"So, Sam…"

"So, Daniel…"

"You may not have noticed," he said, dropping his chin, smiling, "but I've been kind of a pain in the ass lately."

Sam glanced at him and smiled back. "Yeah, I kind of noticed that."

"I thought once my memory came back that everything would be okay, you know? I thought those…strange feelings of…oh, I don't know—emptiness? Um, a certain kind of hollowed out feeling?—I thought they'd fill up, and I'd just go on being me. But I'm having a hard time completely fleshing it out. I don't know. It's hard to…Strange, that's all."

"I'm sure it is."

"I remember who I was, for the most part. I mean I can go through my journals, I see my office. My clothes seem to fit like they're mine," he said, lifting his head and smiling, his eyes crinkling.

"Your shirts are a little tighter," she said, squeezing his arm.

"Oh, you noticed that, did you?"

"Between you and Teal'c, I've never seen so many sleeveless t-shirts," Sam said. Daniel laughed.

"Yeah, Teal'c and I have been hitting the gym pretty consistently. This too shall pass, as they say," Daniel told her, flexing his bicep next to her, and it was Sam's turn to laugh.

Daniel thought about all the times he and his team had entered that room, boots clomping on the grate. He thought about the last time he walked up the ramp before his ascension, if only in that dream-like world. Always a place of departure and arrival, of adventure and heartbreak, the gate room held many memories. So many coats of paint to cover so many staff weapon blasts. So many safety protocols to cover their asses. He'd walked up that ramp with his team more times than he could count. He'd walked back down that same ramp too many times missing a teammate or two. Those were always the hardest times. He always felt like he'd betrayed his teammate, left behind on a planet, just so he and the others could formulate a plan in the comfort and safety of home.

But harder still was staying on the planet with his fallen friend, unable to do much more than comfort him. Or to be a sympathetic observer in an anti-gravitational cylinder deep within a fortress of pain. Sitting in the gate room, once again separated from parts of his team, Daniel felt the surge of disclosure, of confession cresting in his heart.

It was time to let Sam in. He needed to let her in, to let her understand. He took a quick peek at her, cleared his throat and began. "Did Jack ever tell you about when he was being tortured by Ba'al?"

Sam snapped to attention by the topic. "No, not much. I knew what was in the report."

With his arms cantilevered over his bent knees, his fingers drumming the air, Daniel launched into what he knew would be a long, difficult explanation. "I felt like such a fraud."

"What are you talking about?"

"I was there, Sam. With him. I was there." As if reassuring himself of the truth, he nodded.

"Wh…wait. You can remember that?" she asked, swiveling on her seat to face him.

"Lately, I'm remembering a lot of moments like that. And forgetting other things. Kind of disconcerting, if you know what I mean."

"Well…yeah, I'm sure it is."

"Anyhow," he said, filling his chest with air, "there I was, this not-at-all-powerful being, and all I could really do was…talk to him."

"I'm sure he appreciated it."

"Yes, well, I think we both know how much Jack likes to have his spirits lifted."

Sam grimaced. "Especially by a spirit."

Daniel thought about her point and smirked. "Exactly. What happened to Jack, Sam…It was brutal." He pushed his glasses onto his head and rubbed circles against his aching eyes, perhaps to wipe away the images of watching Jack suffer. Some memories, though, were too well chiseled into the mind. He lowered his hands, and blinked the focus back into his eyes.

"When he said he had seen you, I thought it was a hallucination," Sam said in a quiet voice, filled with shocked realization.

"No, I was with him." He began to scrape his fingernail against the pad of his thumb, for no other reason than to do something with the nervous energy skittering through his limbs. "I thought if I could just bolster his resolve, help him to see his potential maybe he'd be all right. I did the whole 'You da man! The Universe is rootin' for ya! Rah!…'" Daniel frowned, shrugged his shoulder and his brow. The futility of it all…

"You helped him, Daniel," Sam assured him. "Teal'c said you came to him during Kel-no-reem. He said you told him where the colonel was being held."

"No," Daniel said, halting her with one held up finger. "No, that's what Teal'c thought. I mean…literally. He thought he'd been given the answer, but he didn't get it from me. Somehow, he already knew."

"Wow." Sam stared off into the distance, trying that one on for size.

"Yeah." Daniel paused also to consider the magnitude of Teal'c's awareness of those around him. It shamed Daniel that he couldn't have such insights, and never had. He drew his hand down the length of his face, sniffed and began again. "Seeing Jack down in that sewer—something about it was worse than when he was with Ba'al, and I can't quite…I think part of it was that with Ba'al, there seemed to be a little fight still in him. At least for most of it." Daniel came to a stop, as if the energy had been drained from him in remembrance of that moment in Jack's cell when the realization of what Jack was asking him to do became painfully clear. No point in it, he thought. There was enough to think about without uncovering foggy memories that lay half-exposed in his mind. He gritted and bared his teeth, glanced up at the high-voltage cables lining the wall.

"But down in the sewer," Sam said, offering him a way to extricate himself from what seemed like such a wrenching memory.

"But down in the sewer…" Daniel had left one theatre of anguish, only to enter another. The memories came back to him in cold, fetid waves—the feel of Jack's lifeless body, the despair in his whispered words. How much can one person be asked to suffer, and for what purpose?

"We found him, Daniel. You did. We brought him back. We did what we were expected to do."

"Yes, well, that's great, because other than that I was no help to him whatsoever." Daniel picked at the cuff of his sleeve. "Jack wanted me to help him when he was being tortured by Ba'al. I told him I had a better idea. He wanted me to leave him alone after we brought him back from the sewer. I told him I had a better idea. When will I ever learn to listen?"

"What would you have done differently?"

"See, that's an interesting question, one that I've been trying to figure out for weeks."

"And what have you come up with?"

"Nothing. One great big bowl of nada."

"You helped him, Daniel. You still help him."

"No," he said, once again correcting her. "I push him, like I always do."

"This time he pushed back."

"Yeah."

"He didn't mean it, Daniel."

"Oh, he meant it. He's probably meant to do it for years."

"Let's not…"

"Don't get me wrong, Sam. I've given him plenty of reasons to want to take a whack at me. And believe me, there have been times when I wouldn't have minded doing the same to him."

"I know."

"I mean, we've fought before, but there was always something …off with one of us, or…both of us."

Sam nodded, remembering. "Which seems to suggest that, again, the colonel was compromised somehow."

"Maybe."

"I think so."

"Probably." Daniel stared straight ahead, tapping his fingertips together.

"How's the jaw?" Sam asked.

His hand reached for the place. "Oh, it's….um, it's fine."

"You can hardly see the bruise anymore."

"I just…" he said, his eyes coming to a close, seemingly around the very words. "Jack, for all his foibles and—let's face it—pissiness, well, he's still…he's still my friend."

"I know."

"When I was sick," Daniel said, absently looking around the gate room, "when the radiation poisoning was really bad, I asked Jack to let me go."

"How?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "I remember talking to him, seeing myself on that bed. It was this bizarre out-of-body experience, only Jack was along for the ride. Your dad was…" Daniel shook his head, could almost feel the oscillations of the healing device through his body, and he felt nauseated. He had to disengage from the memory quickly, or else he thought he might be sick. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and waited a moment before he began again. "I asked Jack to tell them to stop, and he did. He listened to me. He trusted me."

"You and the colonel have always had…" Sam stopped, only becoming aware midway through the sentence how petty her statement was going to be. Halfway through the sentence she understood the jealousy in her heart over Daniel and the colonel's fierce friendship. She was ashamed of herself. "You and the colonel will work this out."

"Are you sure about that?"

She had a brief, tense moment when she considered what would happen if they couldn't work things out. Would the colonel ever bond with her like he had with Daniel? And then she chided herself for her impudence and superficiality. Of course, he had. The colonel had more than bonded with her. The colonel was what bound them to each other, and that was the precise reason for her grief.

"Daniel," she said, a thought growing in her brain, "are you concerned the colonel hasn't…I mean, when you were gone, do you think the colonel thought Jonas was a better member of SG1 than you?"

"The thought has crossed my mind."

"He wasn't, Daniel," she assured him. "Jonas was a valued member, and it's true we were lucky to have him, but he's not you."

"And I'm not him."

Sam could see the pain it cost Daniel to reveal his own cache of self-doubt. It must have been the mix Daniel had been talking about—trying to find the edges of his being, without mixing in other edges. She frowned, sighed, touched his hand. "Daniel, every day that you were gone, every single mission, you were missed. Do you know that?"

"Yeah, I do," he said, unable to meet her eye.

"Jonas was a very good man, and honestly? If he could have stayed on at the SGC, I think he could have been a tremendous addition. I think the two of you would have changed…every concept we have of what's possible."

"I don't know."

"It's true. But you're back, and he's gone, and…" Sam stopped, bit her lip, and shored up her crumbling resolve. "Things happen for a reason, Daniel. It's not a mistake that you're back home. You were always supposed to be here."

"For what purpose?"

She wanted to scream at him, cry, take him by the shirt and shake him so he'd maybe be able to see her own pain. "Well, maybe I needed you. Hmmm? Did you ever think about that?"

Daniel looked up and into her eyes, stunned. His eyes blinked, caught, nonplussed and breathless.

"Daniel," she said, before she could talk herself out of it. She had to ask him a question, one that she had meant to ask for a long time, one that she was afraid to ask. She girded her determination, refused to let herself back away, and came out with it. Now or never, she thought. "Daniel, Teal'c said you came to him in a dream, when he was ill. You just told me you were with Colonel O'Neill. Why…why didn't you…" All of a sudden it seemed so childish, so immature. She shook her head and waved her hand between them. "No. Forget it."

"Why didn't I come to you?" he asked, nodding.

"I don't know," she said, embarrassed by her need to know. "You probably couldn't remember, even if you had."

"I remember."

Sam looked at him, astounded, and she laughed, but it sounded strained even to her own ears. She screwed her lips up and tried to pretend she wasn't very close to tears. She looked directly at him, in that moment, her eyebrows raised, her eyes sparkling with tears. She wanted to say, "Look, I'm crying, and I'm okay with that," but her emotions had a stranglehold on her voice, and she really wasn't okay with it, at all. Instead, she breathed in, let her mouth curl to a frown, and brushed away a tear.

When she thought she could speak without losing it, she allowed herself to voice what she'd wanted to tell Daniel ever since he'd come back. "It's stupid, I know. But... do you know how much I missed you? I don't mean me, your teammate. I mean me. Do you know how much I missed…our friendship?"

"I know," he said. "I knew."

Sam tried to swallow against her tight throat. "You did?"

Daniel looked down at the floor next to his feet, and wondered how he could explain it to her. Maybe if he did it would make sense to him, these echoes of memories of a time he wasn't supposed to remember. "Being with the Ancients, um, like, well, it was like finally coming into the light of what is really true. No clouds, just…honest thought. I knew you missed me, Sam. It was your honest thought."

Sam was taken aback, jutted her head slightly forward as if she hadn't heard correctly. "You could read minds?"

"No, more like I could…feel thoughts, like a current of energy you were expressly putting out into the universe."

"And you could tap into that conduit of energy," she said.

"Pretty much, yeah. I mean, that's how I knew Jack was in trouble with Ba'al."

"I'm sorry," she said, closing her eyes, trying to understand. "I just don't…"

Daniel held out his hands to her, as if to offer her a more digestible version of the cumbersome thought. "You know how some people feel color?"

"Synesthetics."

"Right. Well, I could…feel thoughts. It's hard to…" Daniel shifted around toward Sam, the excitement of words and memory rushing through him. "It was less reading your mind, and more like stepping into a bubble of consciousness." Sam tipped her head forward and motioned for him to continue. "Like I said, hard to explain." Daniel smiled at her, that smile that had become so much more available since his return, another wonderful result of his de-ascension. But with a few blinks of the eye, his smile melted away, and the heaviness returned. "When Jack went missing on our last mission, I tried to find him by what I had learned from Oma. I couldn't do it. All I could feel was fear. My own fear. You can't feel anyone else's thoughts if yours are too overpowering." Daniel considered that, having only realized the truth in it once it was out in the open. He picked at the cuff of his jacket, terribly uncomfortable with how much of his inner workings he had exposed. "That probably also explains how I found myself on his office floor the other day before I even knew what had hit me." A bitter peal of laughter dribbled over his lips.

"Yeah, I suppose so." Sam watched the conflicting emotions pass Daniel's features, and felt a pang of remorse for her own irritation with him.

"When I was with Oma, I learned how to tap into the different dimensions of the universe. I could feel thoughts as if they were tangible, palpable things, Sam. I could feel anger and fear. Confusion—that's a tough one. I could also feel strength." His sad eyes came up , found Sam's, and the sadness was replaced by deep respect and devotion to his friend. "I could feel your strength, Sam. It was there all the time. You didn't need me. Not like Teal'c and Jack. But I was there."

Sam, overcome by the sense of warmth and care in his words, pressed a hand to her chest and sighed. Her lips tried to break into a smile, but they were trembling. It embarrassed her, this moment of precious intimacy. She sniffed, raised her chin, and said, "I don't feel very strong these days."

"It's there, Sam. Count on it." He held her focus, determined that she believed him, that she believed once again in herself. And she locked onto that belief, nodded where there might have been words. She fisted away the tears on her cheek and began to giggle.

"What?" he asked, finding himself smiling at her.

"So you're saying the Ancients are just a bunch of galactic voyeurs?"

Daniel laughed, as well, his head falling back against the pedestal. "Well, I suppose in a purely emotional sense, yes. That's the purpose of the ascended, to accept things. To absorb them, even. Fear, sorrow, grief, happiness—they're all part of the whole."

"And can you still do that?"

"What?"

"Accept all those things as being part of the whole?"

Daniel offered her his hand. "Hi, my name is Daniel Jackson. Apparently, we've never met."

"Got it." Sam smiled, wiped the last tear from her cheek, and wiped her hand on her pant leg. "I've missed you, Daniel."

"I missed you, too."

"Not only when you were with the others, but in the last couple weeks."

"I know, and I'm working on it." Daniel took a breath, and for a moment, he hesitated, scuttled closer to her side and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. "Give me a little more time, okay?"

"Okay," she said, and Daniel could feel Sam's tensed posture begin to relax, and she leaned into his embrace. He heard her sigh, and she allowed her head to rest on his shoulder.

"It helps me that you're back," she said after a long silence, and hoped he realized how much she would now rely on his friendship again.

"I'm glad." Daniel smiled, kissed the top of her head, and began to hope that maybe some things could come round fully, after all.

Sam snuggled in closer, and they sat quietly, these two friends, close as siblings-a brother of antiquated cultures, a sister of burgeoning technologies, bound by the familial ties of academia, of fierce devotion, and of that most simple truth of all, love.


	6. Chapter 6

Sursum Corda-Chapter Six

**It had begun to rain an hour earlier,** cold spring rain; the kind of rain that sifted through the obstinate fingers of late winter. Teal'c had gathered the few candles he had been able to find in the old cabin and placed them on the main room's floor. Interspersed between were a rusted pail and a dinged cooking pot, catching the plunk, plunk, plunk of rainwater leaking through the failing roof. He had moved his spot twice before finding a dry area. And then he began to meditate.

He breathed through the tension, releasing it from every muscle in his body. He filled his mind and limbs with air, and exhaled the stress. He inhaled all that was good and decent about his friend, and exhaled all the fear and anger. His heart rate slowed with each lost grain of frustration; his mind focused with each expelled burst of churlishness.

There was a soft click of the door, and a gust of icy wind brought the scent of green moss and pine into the room. The once lugubrious candle flames flickered nervously, but remained the steadfast beacons of Teal'c's meditative state. The pot-bellied stove growled with the added air rising up its flue.

Teal'c did not open his eyes, nor did he allow a cessation of his duties to his inner and outer self. If there were to be conflict, if there was to be any contact it would have to wait. The discipline he'd learned all those years ago had ushered him through situations of greater tension than this. And so he breathed, deep and long.

The door closed, the flames peaked toward the ceiling, the logs burning inside the stove crackled and popped. Warmth returned to the darkened room, its walls danced with shadows. The muffled, infrequent drops of water accompanied the sheepish, hushed steps toward the small bedroom, around the arc of candles. Dry, warm clothes waited there and would bring comfort to a wet, chilled body. A full bottle of whiskey waited in another room and would bring a different sort of comfort.

Jack had stood on the dock for hours, his eyes blindly looking over a lake that had held out its arms to him all his life. Its shores, the framework of a lifetime spent enjoying family and friends, loving a wife and child, healing the many wounds and injuries. It was where he had gone to grieve a mother, a father, his son, and presently the loss of all that he felt he could rely on. And so, he found himself once again, a small and insignificant part of his own world, contemplating cowardice and desertion, standing at the edge of a body of water that had come to be at the end of an ice age, and that would remain long after his body had returned to the ground.

Through the long, silent hours and the changing hues of the sky above, he had stood motionless, a silhouette against an amber sky. How many times had he come to this spot, stood before the great span of water and asked for guidance? For consolation? For forgiveness?

Unless a man be born again of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God…

He had RSVPed his regrets to that particular invitation a long time ago, but there was a time…

Fifty years before, a priest had poured water over the sleeping baby's head, spoken the ancient words, delivered him from his original, inherent sin. The baby cried out, his chest rising and falling with stunned screams. His tiny hands scratched the air, searching for his mother, his father, a reassuring and comforting place to grasp. Warm oil was smeared on his newborn forehead, his quavering lips, his pink, vascular chest. He was handed to his parents, and in the wink of an eye, he was standing alone on a dock, a cane in one hand, having grown bitter by the delusory promise of sacraments.

You only get one chance at such things, and then you're on your own.

Besides, there wasn't enough water in all of Minnesota to cleanse him. Not even the persistent rain could wash away his inequities, or renew his spirit. He was sullied, his soul and mind tainted with the evils he had seen, with the orders he had given based on duty and protection. He had been presented with all the sacraments, had discarded them all, just as quickly, out of neglect, out of disbelief. He had created a life that he thought was sacred, and abused his privileges there, too.

"You're a better man than that," someone had once told him.

"That's where you're wrong!" he had cried out.

And the eyes knew he was right…

He lifted his face to the black sky, let the icy drops of rain pelt his skin. It had slipped through his fingers, this life, this promise of salvation, this gift of health and friendship. Of youth. Redemption was for the appreciative, not for those who had taken for granted all the gifts of the living.

A life spent entrenched in battles and warfare had long ago burned the oil from his skin. Still the rain rolled over his features, and still the feral cry deep within his chest rose, and still his hand reached out for something in the dark.

And all he could see were the eyes.

"Something sinister in the tone told me my secret must be known," his friend had read to him.

"Sursum corda," his soul had pleaded with him.

Through the thick air, he smelled the smoke. He turned from the lake, and saw the faint trail of white lingering next to the corroded chimney pipe. The windows of the cabin lit golden, the pledge of warmth.

Soaked to the skin, shaking—was it the cold, the rain, or the burden?—Jack took pains to enter the cabin as quietly as possible, changed his clothes, and returned to the quiet room. He paused just inside the space, glanced at Teal'c, who was seated on the hard floor, and wondered why Teal'c even cared.

"Ya know, T," Jack said, leading with his well-honed sense of bravado in the face of damnation, "I could have been lost out there."

Without opening his eyes, nor changing his position, Teal'c said, "Having been raised in these woods, it would have been quite unlikely."

"I could have been attacked by bears."

"Are they not herbivores in this area?"

"Well, yeah, but still." Jack lowered himself into the tufted chair, its upholstery faded and threadbare, its once regal gold braiding bleached wheat over the decades. He closed one eye and looked toward the ceiling, but in the diminished light couldn't quite make out where the hole in the roof might be. The old place was hardly standing, he thought. Not much would bring it down.

"I could have been out there hatching a plot against you."

"I would hope so," Teal'c said, opening his eyes, smiling gently at Jack. "It would signal the return to your former self."

"My former self," Jack whispered, regret and fatigue tingeing the shape of his words.

"You are lost, my friend."

"No, but I might have been. You didn't bother to find out."

"Come, sit with me. Meditate. Regain your core."

"Didn't know Kel-no-reem involved Pilates," Jack said, which Teal'c summarily ignored. Jack knew Teal'c was trying to help him, and he knew if he continued with the off-putting quips he'd only make Teal'c lose respect for him. Lose more respect, that is, because surely there was a loss there. And why wouldn't there be? Jack could barely muster any self-respect.

"The knees can't really do the cross-legged thing anymore," he said, a conciliatory effort. "You think I can still achieve inner-whatever from the comfort of this broken down chair?"

"As you wish."

"Good. Well, let the healing begin."

"The healing, as you say, will begin when you open yourself to that which is truthful."

"Okay, well," he began, the fingers on each hand clutching at the end of the armrests "Truthful, huh? I can do truthful."

"You may begin at any time."

Jack took a deep breath, and tried long and hard to find that one grain of truth that wouldn't send him hurtling toward the door. It seemed to him he was one big ball of honesty, raw and vulnerable, and he'd never been a man who had had much time for vulnerability. With so many layers of honest, heavy emotion piled on top of him, Jack hardly knew how to climb out from under the pile.

"Truthful. Open myself up to something true," he said, drawing in air, exhaling in an exaggerated gush. "All right. Well, don't know if you heard, but I hit Daniel."

"So you have."

"If I'm being honest, I'm having a hard time forgiving myself for that, Teal'c."

"I feel there is much you seek forgiveness for, as of late, O'Neill."

"Yeah, probably." A heavy drop of water splashed into the bucket. Jack squinted his eyes and searched for other signs of leaks in the roof. "It wouldn't surprise me if that entire ceiling came down on our heads."

"It will be fine."

"Glad you have such confidence."

"Would it be correct to assume that DanielJackson's behavior had nothing to do with your actions, and for this you seek release from your culpability?"

"Bit of an obfuscated sentence, wouldn't you say?" Jack said.

"Will you not answer the question?"

"I'll try," he said, closing his eyes and thinking about the question. "Yes, he provoked me, and, no, it had nothing to do with him."

"What was the origin, then?"

"I don't know. Nothing. Everything. It has to do with whatever the hell has been going on in my noodle for however long. Guess my thoughts, my—gawd—my feelings have been just as obfuscated. Occluded, even. In fact, they've been damn near—"

"When DanielJackson speaks tangentially as you are, you have often spoken his name, followed by a profanity. Should I now do the same for you?" Teal'c asked.

"If you can think of a profanity that starts with O, be my guest."

"Let us consider that your thoughts became mired long before you struck DanielJackson."

"I've considered that."

"And what conclusions have you reached?"

"Not many," Jack began, pressing his head into the musty back of the chair. He took a deep breath, coughed when spores of mold tickled his sinuses, and quickly dismissed any association with such olfactory memories. "Okay, one."

"Which is?"

"It seems that I've lost my Spidey sense," he said, fairly annoyed at the fact, and his tone emphasized that point.

"To what do you refer?"

Jack shrugged. "Don't know. Just this feeling I have, that I'm not seeing what's coming down the pike. I guess I don't know how it all happened."

"You were ambushed."

"Yeah, but…how? That's not how it was supposed to go down."

"I believe you have often supplied me with a sufficient answer to such a quandary."

"Oh, yeah? Me? What's that?"

Teal'c tipped his head, smiled, and said, "Fecal matter occurs."

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose and tried not to laugh. His chest felt much too tight and heavy to allow such levity. No, there was a weight there, a cumbersome boulder of self-doubt and regret that needed to be removed if he ever wanted to enjoy the light again, and Jack didn't think that was possible.

"When did your thought become so troubled, O'Neill?"

"Oh, who knows?"

"I believe you know."

But of course, Jack knew. It had been such a minor thing, still it troubled him. He hadn't heard Sam entering the camp just minutes before his abduction, nor had he heard Teal'c. Why his mind chose to deliberately preserve those two ostensibly insignificant moments seemed to him the genesis of his ruination. He'd slipped up, become lazy in his reaction and his duty. He'd lost his edge, and for that he was taken to an underground chamber of horrors, where he was put on display, an example of squandered infallibility.

"You are troubled, O'Neill. It fills the air around you. I sense it, and have sensed it for many weeks."

Jack shifted in his chair, hoping he would be lost in the shadows, hoping his burden would hide with him.

"I don't know, Teal'c."

"Relax. Close your eyes. Trust me with that which taxes your soul."

"Relax, he says," Jack muttered, cupping his cheek in the warmth of his hand, fingers webbed over his eye, his elbow planted in the tattered arm of the chair. His knee began to bounce, a frenetic rhythm of fear and being too close to the edge. "I can't do this."

"You can, and you must," Teal'c said. "Breathe. Fill your body with air. You are safe."

But the illusion of safety had left him long ago, in a cavern where he was exposed for all to see.

"When you recall your time with your abductors, what is it you see?" Teal'c asked, watching his friend shield his face with his trembling hand.

In the abyss of his mind, behind the shade of his closed lids, Jack began to see them again, the silent scrutinizers of his weakest moments. His skin began to writhe; a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. He couldn't breathe, could hardly move.

"Tell me what you are seeing, O'Neill."

"Eyes."

"Whose eyes?"

"Theirs. In the dark."

"In the sewer tunnel?"

"No. Before. In the stasis chamber. Hundreds of beady little alien eyes." Jack washed a hand across his damp face, pulled air into his burning lungs. His blurred focus skimmed the walls, if only to make sure he wasn't there anymore.

"And what were they looking at?"

"Me."

"Were you in danger?"

"From them? No."

"What is it they were trying to see?"

Out of the corner of his eyes, Jack saw a drop of water plummet through the air. "Maybe we should empty that pot."

"There is plenty of room, yet. Do not concern yourself with such trivial things."

"It's my cabin, Teal'c. I'm concerned that it's falling apart."

"So are you, O'Neill. For that you should be more concerned."

Even though he knew it was true, hearing it stung. Jack dropped his chin to his chest, scraped his nails across his scalp, and shook his head, denying that the obvious was that apparent.

"What did the eyes see?" Teal'c asked again.

Jack slumped farther into the chair, completely covered his eyes with his hand, and sighed. "Fear. They saw fear."

"And what brought such fear to you?"

"Helplessness."

"Were you, in fact, helpless?"

"Yes."

"You have been in helpless situations before. I have shared many of those moments with you. I have often marveled at your self-discipline to stave off fear. What is it that changed in those days?"

"It was so quiet, and I…I…"

"What, O'Neill?"

"Ah, dammit, Teal'c!" Jack growled, losing the battle with his composure.

"Tell me, O'Neill."

Jack palmed his aching brow, tore at his hair. "Fine. It was…"

"Yes?"

"Silent. It was just so damn quiet."

"And?"

"And there was nothing to fight against. Nothing to hide behind. I couldn't fight; I didn't fight. I…I…"

"What?"

Jack propelled himself to the edge of the chair. "I can't stand to listen to that constant drip, drip, drip! Is it just me, or is that making you a little nuts, too?"

"It seems to have abated." Teal'c eyed Jack carefully. Jack shook his head, listened to the pounding of his heart in his ears. "Does the sound remind you of the sewer, that place where you came to be?"

"Fu…I don't know," Jack said, squirming, unwilling to venture into yet another dark, uninhabitable recollection. He slouched back into his chair, exhaustion and submission to his failings winning out over any feigned tenacity.

"When you were summarily discarded into that place, surely you experienced more despair."

Jack slapped his hand to the armrest. "Can we just stick to one subject here? Huh?"

"Indeed." Teal'c "Which do you prefer to address? That which changed you, or how your time in the catacombs amongst the refuse affected you."

"Well, put it that way, and it's just too damn hard to choose."

"Very well. Then tell me what changed you in those days while the aliens observed you."

Jack squeezed his neck, aching and tight. "I don't know."

"You do. You were about to tell me. You have the ability to do so, but you choose not to."

It was a challenge, and Jack knew it. He wondered if he could actually meet the challenge. After all, he knew what he had done. That one cowardly act had burned in his gut, had haunted his sleep and destroyed the privacy of his days. And all the eyes had witnessed it.

"I gave up," he said.

"You surrendered?"

"No," Jack whispered, the strength to voice such words far too costly. "I gave up. On myself."

"This would be the cause of your suffering, O'Neill?" Teal'c asked.

"Well, yeah!" he stated, his hand sailing away from him. "I gave up on myself, Teal'c. First thing you learn in special ops—your worst enemy is your own fear. I came face to face with that fear, and went turtle up."

"In what way?"

"In what way? I don't know! Choose one!"

"You believed they had the best of you."

"Yeah."

"You believed the situation was helpless."

"That, too."

"You believed your life was near the end." When silence followed, Teal'c qualified his statement. "And you believed it had little to do with the aliens."

"Jesus…"

"You were stripped before them, correct?"

Jack swallowed hard, feeling himself begin to writhe under the memory. "Yeah. So?"

"The humiliation must have been overwhelming."

"Don't remember that part. I only remember the piñata part."

Teal'c bowed his head, acknowledging the correction. "You were stripped of your power, your effectiveness, your cunning and your rank."

"Not to mention my skivvies."

"Those, as well," Teal'c said, nodding in honor of the lost dignity. "They stripped you of all that you are, all that is Colonel Jack O'Neill, and those few days you were simply a man, a soldier, and the aliens were eyewitnesses to a mere mortal."

"Teal'c…" Jack said, in something like a cry.

"You are mortal, my friend, but you are not merely a soldier." From his seat before Jack, Teal'c saw the inner battle-the churning torso, the clenched jaw, the white knuckles. Teal'c tilted his head and lowered his voice yet again, into that timbre that might soothe and caress an aching soul. "The eyes saw fear, of which I am certain. But did they not also marvel at the grace of your physique, one that is as alien to them as they to you? Is it possible that they were not observers of your imperfections, but of your tremendous strength?"

"For God's sake, Teal'c…"

"Stripped of all your skills and training, are you still not O'Neill?" Teal'c asked, and his eyes began to burn with sympathy for the battle his friend was required to endure in order to regain his soul. "What was it you saw in their eyes, O'Neill? Perhaps that is the greater question."

"I don't want to talk about it, Teal'c."

"Did you not, perhaps, see your future in their eyes, exposed so all that holds you to this world could be seen? Did they not allow you a glimpse into what could be your destiny? What is it you fear, O'Neill? Them, or the future?"

Tucked in the shadows, mute with sorrow, raw from exposure, his recent past having been turned inside out, Jack choked back the ache in his throat. "My future…I thought I'd know when it was time to retire from the field. It should have been my right to decide that, at least."

"You've lived a life of decisions, but it has never been yours to decide events."

"Teal'c, I gotta tell you, I'm close to total stroke-zone, here. Can you just tell me what the hell you meant by that?" Jack asked, weariness becoming the greater part of his voice.

"I meant that it is never your option to chose the events that will occur in your life. It is only the decisions you make based on those events that you are able to control."

"Then I choose not to grow old."

"That is not one of your choices."

"I know. Believe me, I know." Jack rubbed his thumb against the deep groove between his eyes. "The gray hair—hell, I've had that for years. The aches and pains in my knees and back are something I've just lived with. I never considered myself…" A dovetailed thought blocked the first, and Jack pushed his head, spinning with anguish, into the back of the chair. "But they knew. They looked me over good, said, 'Eh, we can do better than him,' and…"

And as Jack spoke, shaking his head, his lips puckering around harsh words, the lines in his face peaking with tension, Teal'c sat by, accepting each thought, each harrowing memory. He knew it was not his time to talk, or to question. His friend was compelled to speak of his own accord, compelled by caged fear and self-doubt that no longer wished to be.

Jack brought his hand to his forehead, kneading it. "One minute I'm this display unit, and the next thing I know the ground is coming up quick. I've done the whole not-quite parachuting thing. Did it in Iraq. At least that time I had on a uniform! Shit!" Jack reached behind him, both hands grasping the back of the chair. He buried his face in his arm, sealed his eyes tight against anger, against uncontrollable, careening emotions. His knees bounced up and down, and his chest bucked. "They dumped me, Teal'c. They got whatever the hell they needed from me, and they tossed me aside, like yesterday's garbage. They were gonna let me rot in that God forsaken place, as if I were…were…"

"But you didn't, O'Neill. DanielJackson found you."

Jack let go of the back of the chair, and grabbed hold, instead, of the back of his neck. "Yeah, well, I sure had a funny way of thanking him, didn't I?"

"I believe this to be the least of your concerns, O'Neill."

"Hitting Daniel is the least of my concerns?" Jack said, hardly able to believe what Teal'c had told him. "I hit Daniel! For no other reason than he was there. How am I supposed to just cross that off my 'guilt-to-do' list?"

"You will remove it from you list, as you say, the moment you apologize. That is all that will be required."

"Did ya see his mouth?" Jack asked, remembering the blood. Remembering, too, the betrayal in his friend's eyes.

"Indeed, I did."

"I did that! His commanding officer! Me!"

"I am aware."

"He could have me court martialled."

"You know he has chosen not to."

"Gotta tell ya, if it were me, I'd consider it."

"But you are not DanielJackson."

"Don't I know it."

"All that is required is your request for forgiveness."

"Why would he accept my apology?"

"Because he is your friend."

"Nice way I treat my friends, huh?"

"He will accept your apology. Of this, I have no doubt."

Jack pressed back into the chair, thumped his head against the cushion and groaned. "I don't know, Teal'c. I don't know."

"DanielJackson understands the significant duress you were under when you struck him."

"I'm a colonel in the damned Air Force, Teal'c. I'm supposed to be able to deal with significant duress. It's what they pay me for."

"They do not, however, pay you to be abducted and mistreated by aliens."

"Well, Kinsey might," Jack said. Teal'c allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up in agreement with his friend's assessment. Jack rubbed his eyes, stinging with fatigue and torment. "I don't know. Maybe it is time for me to get the hell out of the field."

"There is much left of your military career, O'Neill."

"Oh, yeah? Tell that to the brass." It was supposed to remain private, but he had ripped the seal off his soul and lain every other torturous problem before him. One more couldn't hurt. Jack screwed up his lips, shook his head, and let loose with the worst part of it, hardly able to speak the humiliating truth. "They're taking away my command, Teal'c. They're gonna reassign me to Washington."

"And so they may," Teal'c said, "but your journey is not over, O'Neill."

Jack rasped his hand across his jowl, over his mouth, and Teal'c could hear his friend attempting to compose himself—a clearing of the throat, a sniff or two. Admirable, at best. The strength with which Jack fought to maintain his dignity tore at Teal'c's heart.

When he spoke again, Teal'c found it difficult to control the continuity of his voice. "This life we lead, my friend, will end. Our lives in military and in exploration will and must conclude, and what will be left for us when it does?"

"What am I gonna do?" Jack asked.

"You will do as you have always done: persevere—with dignity and bombast." He smiled at his friend, warm and empathetic, and knew Jack would hear the unspoken truth in his words. In the diffused light of the room, Teal'c watched Jack nod a little, pinch clean his nose, nod once again.

"We are getting older, my friend," Teal'c said, offering one last observation that he had come to understand many years before. "However, we are far from old. Do not go easily into the future, but have no fear of it, either."

Jack covered his eyes with one hand, brushing his thumb across his tense brow line. What Teal'c was saying, it all made sense. Rationally, it all held some truth. But there was so much pain, so much self-doubt … He dropped his hand to his chest with a thump, took a deep breath and hoped Teal'c had nothing more to say, because Jack was just too damn tired to hear anything else.

The chill that had taken hold of his body during his hours on the dock had been replaced by warmth from the potbelly stove. He was appreciative of that, at the very least. The silence of the room buried him, at first. But he found it wasn't truly silent, not like it had been in the stasis chamber. The old cabin was alive with organic sounds—popping fire, the scrape of tree limbs against the roof. It was with a start that Jack noticed one sound missing—rain. And then another—the plopping sound of water dripping through the roof.

"It's clearing up, I guess," he whispered.

"Indeed." Teal'c blew out each candle, save the last. He unwound his legs and rose from the floor, gathering the one lit candle in his hand. His hand cupped the flame, protecting it. He offered it to Jack, who took it after a moment, and finally, Teal'c bowed.

Jack stared at the flame for what seemed like an eternity, absorbing its meager heat, its steadfast light. When there was no more sound coming from Teal'c's room, Jack tilted the candle and poured some of its wax into the palm of his hand, and his breath seized for a moment at the overpowering warmth. His chest tightened, his eyes burned, suddenly on the verge of persistent emotions. The puddle of wax in his hand began to cool and congeal. Jack pressed his hands together, closed his eyes, and began the questions again.

"What am I gonna do? What's going to happen? What have I done?"

He opened his hands, a simple act he scarcely knew he was doing, and pressed the wax to his chest. Through his shirt he could feel the raised temperature of the molten wax against his skin, and it seemed to penetrate the last part of his body that had never been able to find warmth since his return.

He and the supple flame-the only two ushering in the quietest hours of night. He stayed there in that place, the darkness of the night enveloping him, as the fire tapered off and the candle's wick burned down. The clouds blanketed the sky, making it impossible to see the moon, nor the stars. When the encompassing darkness won out over all other means of light, Jack stayed put, listened to the sounds in the cabin, outside the cabin, in the woods.

And thought.

And thought some more.

No sleep would come, not even an unrealized moment of drifting. All through the night he listened to owls relay messages back and forth across the lake, the bucks snorting deep within the trees. Just before dawn he had moved to the back porch, a moth-eaten wool blanket wrapped around his body. When he brought it close to his face, he found it smelled not of mildew, but of use. Of contact with all those who had come to this cabin before him, their needs and aspirations as dissimilar as the years.

The air was cold, thick and penetrating; his breath condensed inches away from his face. The sun strained to filter up over the heavy horizon and push back the remains of the clouds. All that was left of the rain the night before was a fog that made the world indistinct, softened the lines, blurred the edges. The arms of the old cabin chairs were slick with condensation, glistening with what little light there was.

He had watched the gradation of morning come to the earth—from the smoky grays to the muted greens. When at last he could make that distinction between grass and water, Jack pushed the blanket off his shoulders and began a slow trek to the edge of the lake. A bush full of violet blossoms, laden with precipitation, waited for him there.

The land was uneven between cabin and bush, and Jack thought twice about venturing out there without the aid of his cane. But he did it, and was surprised, for the most part, of how steady he felt. Still, he held his hand to his hip, more out of habitual sympathy than out of pain.

Reaching the edge of the lilac bush, Jack cupped his hand under a dewy sprig, and ran his thumb over the tiny, supple blossoms, closed yet against the early morning chill. He bent over, dipped his nose to the flowers and drew in breath. It was the perfume of youth and goodness. Of spring and renewal.

Plucking one of the buds from the stem, Jack nibbled on the end, its delicate nectar fueling his memories of home and childhood. Of possibility.

Time went gently, the minutes flowing by with a softness that became imperceptible. A heron, silent as the fog itself, glided effortlessly, just inches above the water. Along the edge of the shore, a patch of cattails swayed in the gentle breeze, the long, slender palms grazing against each other.

The fog began to lumber away from the shore, and Jack caught sight of a burned out stump, its level top upholstered with a cushion of thick moss. God, he thought, the fire of '91. We thought we were going to lose the entire forest and the cabin.

But the land has a way of restoring and forgiving, of using the ashes to nurture seedlings. Scars, like the black, charred stump, remained, but new trees grew tall alongside, and every year the trillium bloomed at its base. Nothing was ever lost; nothing truly ever ended.

"I need to make it right, Teal'c," Jack said, sensing his friend's presence close behind.

"To what are you referring?"

"With Daniel. I need to make it right."

"And so you shall."

"I'm not sure I know how."

"Your friendship with DanielJackson has survived greater hardships than this."

"I hope so."

Jack looked past the lilac bush and into the forest. The burned out core of a once imposing Hemlock held in its lap a nettle of rust pine needles. The outer edges of the tree, with patches of velvet moss amidst quilted, black coals, pointed to the sky, like spires on an Italianate cathedral.

A cathedral.

"Sursum corda."

Teal'c turned to Jack, tipped his head and waited for the rest.

"Sursum corda," Jack said again. "It means 'lift up your heart.'"

Teal'c closed his eyes, and all was made clear.

"I haven't thought about that in thirty, thirty-five years." Of their own accord, Jack's fingers caressed the lilac blooms, his eyes taking in all that surrounded him, his mind returning to days of Latin and faith.

"And is your heart lifted?"

"It's getting there. I think I have you to thank for some of that."

"It is my honor and privilege to assist you through this juncture in your life."

"It's a hell of a juncture, my friend."

"Indeed it is." From behind him, Teal'c brought forth Jack's cane. "I thought perhaps you would be in need of this."

Jack took it and shrugged, and he reached out once again, cupping his hand around the back of Teal'c's neck. "Thank you. Not just for this, but for … coming up here. You're a good friend, Teal'c."

"I am better for having made your acquaintance those many years ago."

"If only for the fact that you don't have to wear that uniform and skull cap anymore," Jack said, his eyes twinkling with a light that had been missing for many weeks.

Teal'c bowed, relieved to see that part of O'Neill returning, replacing the ubiquitous sorrow that seemed to have taken up residence in his friend's eyes.

"It's gonna be a nice day," Jack said, squinting into the haze of the sun. "Turned out to be a pretty nice night."

"'My barn has burned down, and now I see the moon,'" Teal'c said, and Jack just stared at him.

"Is that …"

"It is Chinese philosophy."

"Ah."

"It means—"

"I got it," Jack said, turning back to the lake. "I know what it means. Thank you."

"In retrospect, you could have been more seriously injured in the fall from the stasis field."

"Yeah, I suppose."

"I believe your Celtic heritage played a role in your fortunes where this is concerned," Teal'c said, pleased he had been able to incorporate the Tau'ri colloquialism into the conversation.

"You mean 'Luck of the Irish'?" Jack asked, to which Teal'c nodded. "My mother was Scandinavian. What's that say about my luck?"

Teal'c rolled his eyes, weary of the complexities and esoteric qualities of the culture. He decided rather quickly to stick with a simpler subject. "Perhaps I will begin breakfast. Norbert sold me on venison sausage with maple syrup. I am most interested in experiencing this type of game meat."

"Yeah, you go ahead. That's where the city-boy in me doesn't quite see eye-to-eye with the outdoors guy."

"Very well," Teal'c said. "Shall I start a pot of coffee for you, O'Neill?"

"If I had a ring, I'd propose, Teal'c."

"There is no need for such a gesture," Teal'c said, frowning. He turned toward the cabin, and when he did, his foot was yanked out from under him, a forearm across his back hurled him to the ground. He threw himself onto his back, and Jack's booted foot slammed into his sternum, the tip of his cane a breath away from Teal'c's gold brand.

"How ya doin'?" Jack asked, peering straight down the line of his cane into Teal'c's eyes.

"What is the meaning of this, O'Neill?" Teal'c demanded, his own eyes riveted to Jack's stony features.

Jack lifted his cane and his foot, quirked a smile, and said, "Just checking." He offered Teal'c a hand, brushed the leaves off Teal'c's back, and hooked his cane onto his elbow. "Just wanted to make sure."

With an oddly mingled surge of surprise and delight, Teal'c watched his friend amble toward the cabin, a slight limp to his gait, but with his chest held high.

**So it was scheduled**, the first meeting of the reconvened SG1. Perhaps the last meeting.

General Hammond had taken the call from Colonel O'Neill three days earlier, informing the general that he and Teal'c were making their way back to Colorado, that yes, the colonel was feeling much better, and that he understood the Pentagon's directive, and was prepared to accept whatever his country asked of him.

General Hammond's heart swelled with pride and sorrow for the man.

"That's fine, Colonel," the general had said, rocking in his chair. "It'll be good to have you back."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm putting SG1 down for a meeting on Friday, the 10th, at 0800."

"We'll be there, sir."

"I'll get word to Doctor Jackson and Major Carter."

"I'd appreciate that, sir. Don't know if I'll get the time."

"Jack?"

"Sir?"

"Because of certain time constraints, I'll need to inform your team of your impending promotion at the time of the meeting."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, and the general had had time to wonder if the calm in Jack's voice hadn't been manufactured. But when Jack did speak, there was a strength in his words, and the general was relieved.

"I understand that, sir. It's probably best that it all comes out this way. It's best."

"I'm glad you feel that way, Colonel."

"So, Friday…"

"We'll see you then."

"And, sir?"

"I know, Jack," the general said, bobbing his head. "I know."

"Right."

General Hammond hung up the phone, sat back, his hands laced behind his head, and wondered how he was going to break it to the entire team that life as they knew it was over.

Maybe they already knew.

**"He's here,"** Sam said, swinging into Daniel's office, and just as quickly disappearing.

Daniel thumbed through his book. Which book, it didn't matter. He wasn't really reading it. He simply needed something to do with his hands, to show the rest of the world that he was working, and not riddled with nerves. The line of sweat that trickled down his back was a pretty good indicator, but he hoped nobody would be able to see that. Just in case, he kept his jacket on.

From the moment he heard the meeting had been set, Daniel worried about his first encounter with Jack. That first awkward moment. They'd had some awkward after-the-clash moments, when neither could look the other in the eye. When one had told the other to shut up, or one had called the other a stupid son of a bitch. Somehow, they'd managed to work through it. It had nothing to do with heart-to-hearts, or sitting down with a beer to hash things out. No, that had never worked for them. God knows they had tried a few times, but inevitably those forced moments lead to more anger.

Time. Time was what had always brought things to a close. Sam said it was avoidance on Daniel's part, memory failure on the colonel's. Daniel kind of agreed, and kind of knew he never avoided anything, and Jack had a memory like a fresh-from-the-assembly-line PC.

No, it was time. Time to rethink, to cool down, to judge one's own culpability, and on this one account, Daniel was fairly sure his was the lion's share.

There was a chance, he supposed, that Jack had spent his leave contemplating his own guilt. Maybe, Daniel thought, Jack had used his time considering how he would change, become more open minded and less quick to react.

Yeah, right.

Then again, maybe Jack had spent his time away from the SGC counting all the ways that Daniel had become a burden to the team. Daniel felt like he had a pretty good list started if Jack needed one.

No, no. It was just going to be…awkward. Strained, even, and the sooner that part was over, the sooner they could begin to piss each other off again, which was the one constant Daniel could rely on.

And he needed to rely on something.

Daniel closed the book, placed it on his desk and straightened his jacket. Cleared his throat. He took off his glasses and decided they were really, terribly filthy, and that he'd better clean them while he walked. He also tried to convince himself that he hadn't removed them so that if Jack were in the hallway he'd have an excuse why he didn't stop.

Unfortunately, his prescription wasn't that bad, and Jack would know exactly what he was trying to do. Hell, Jack had accused Daniel a time or two of not even really needing glasses. That he wore them around just to up the smart factor. After all, the Air Force had strict regulations where pocket protectors were concerned. He had caught Jack testing his vision plenty of times—"Daniel," he'd say when Daniel's glasses were nowhere to be seen, "what's on the menu today?" Or, "Say, Daniel, I have some dust in my eyes. Read that airman's name on his uniform, won't you?" Daniel would squint, just about get a bead on the man's name, only to become aware of the fact that Jack was testing him, once again. Daniel would smirk and go about his business of ignoring Jack.

Yes, it would be awkward. At least he hoped it would. What if it was filled with bitter tension? It could be that. What if, upon seeing Jack again, a bubble of anger welled up inside Daniel and in a split second he could think of nothing else but retribution? What if they both took one look at the other and started…

"Daniel."

Daniel scanned the briefing room, didn't see Jack, but knew he had heard him call his name. He turned around, and his cheeks bloomed with color, knowing instantly that he had been so absorbed in thought that he had walked right past Jack.

Jack stood next to the door, a tight, incomplete smile on his face, his eyes blinking. He shifted his vision to the floor, lifted his hand to his mouth, and pinched his lips.

Daniel hooked his thumbs in his pockets and searched the floor, as well.

"Um," Jack mumbled. He unfurled his hand between them, as if offering his next words. However, no words followed.

Daniel nodded. "Yeah."

"So."

Daniel bit his lip, narrowed his eyes and shrugged.

"We should probablyyyyy…" Jack started, but became stuck on the last syllable.

"Probably," Daniel agreed, having no idea what he was agreeing to. Still, he bobbed his head, not quite ready to meet Jack's eye.

"Okay, well," Jack said, a hint of finality and satisfaction in his voice.

"Yeah, I guess so," Daniel said, and wished he really could do something other than nod. So much for being multi-lingual…

"Colonel O'Neill," General Hammond said from inside the room. Daniel and Jack began to go through the door simultaneously. They skidded to a stop, and Daniel stepped back. Jack pointed his finger at Daniel, his strange way of saying thank you, Daniel thought, and entered the room.

"General Hammond, sir," Jack said, working hard not to let too much limp show up in his stride.

"You're looking well, Colonel."

"Thank you, sir."

"All that fresh air seemed to work."

"Oh, yes. Fresh air. Hot air," Jack said, stealing a glimpse of Teal'c. "Really, all kinds of air."

Under his breath, reminiscing about the many frozen burritos they had ingested, Teal'c rumbled, "Indeed."

General Hammond smiled, his chest lifting with amusement. "Why don't we begin?"

Jack took a seat just to the right of the ranking officer, his fingers twisted together on the table. Sam sat next to him, smiling, having briefly spoken to the colonel before the meeting. Teal'c sat across the table, concentrating his goodwill toward Jack in what he knew would be a difficult meeting. Finally, after everyone else had been seated, Daniel rounded the table and lowered himself into the chair across from Sam. They exchanged a pensive, quick glance. Daniel sat back and turned his attention to the general.

"I called this meeting not only to welcome Colonel O'Neill back to the SGC, as well as Teal'c, but to inform you all of some changes that will be made."

Jack remained absolutely still. There was enough commotion in the room between the other three searching each other's eyes for silent answers.

"Approximately four weeks ago, I received word from the Air Force Chief of Staff that the promotion board was considering awarding Colonel O'Neill the rank of brigadier general."

Sam spun around to stare wide-eyed at the colonel. Jack's only response to her was a slight lift of the eyebrows, but no eye contact. Daniel, understanding in that split second the ramifications, tightened his brow and dropped his chin.

"Although it isn't official yet," the general went on, "when this promotion does go through, Colonel O'Neill will be reassigned to the Pentagon, where he'll be leading an adjunct supervisory group."

"Sir?" Sam said, beckoning Jack for some word on his behalf. Her greatest fears were being realized, and from the looks of things she was the only one who had a problem with it.

"I'd like to say something, if I may," Jack said. The general offered him the floor with a slight wave of his hand. "Um, here's the deal. I've always thought that when an officer made it to the rank of general, that person grew long on personal importance and short on intelligence. Present company excluded, sir." General Hammond nodded his acceptance. "Be that as it may, I'll do my best to…do whatever I'm asked to do, and do it with all the gusto and honor I can muster."

"So you're okay with this?" Sam asked

"Carter, as I've recently learned, life goes on. I realize that's a bit of a hackneyed saying, but there it is."

"So, that's it?" Sam asked, for anyone to answer. "All due respect, sir, but the colonel gets promoted, and we're left without a CO? If the colonel goes, what happens to SG1?"

General Hammond held a hand up, admonishing her to slow down. "The promotion isn't quite official yet, Major Carter."

"So there's still a chance he won't be promoted?" she asked.

"The wheels are in motion. Colonel O'Neill passed his promotion's board test years ago. You ought to understand how these things work."

"But, sir," she persisted, "with Colonel O'Neill out of the picture—"

"Hello? I'm still in the room," Jack mentioned, raising his hand.

"I'm sorry, sir," Sam said, stepping down. "I guess this kind of comes as a shock, that's all."

"Yes, well, these things happen." Jack tried to smile, give her a reassuring gesture, but there was a pit in the middle of his stomach, and continuing with the masquerade that he was completely good with the whole situation was becoming harder and harder to do.

"Look, to be perfectly honest, Carter, I kind of hoped I'd be offered my oak clusters about the same time my social security benefits kicked in," Jack said. "This isn't exactly the direction I saw my career taking, either, but…" Jack shrugged, tossed his hand in the air and let it smack against the table.

"But if and when Colonel O'Neill moves on to the Pentagon, SG1 will be given a new team leader," General Hammond said, continuing the thread.

"I don't know, sir," Sam said, her chin quirking to one side. "It just seems rather sudden."

"What is the next step in this process, General Hammond?" Teal'c asked, having sat quietly while he observed the reaction to the news the other two were hearing for the first time.

"The next step is sending in my formal recommendation, which is pretty much just that-a formality," the general said, leaning into his words. "I won't lie to you, people. If I had a choice, SG1 would remain a team. However, barring any unforeseen events, this promotion will go through, and the colonel will leave the SGC."

"He hit me."

General Hammond's blue-eyed stare turned to Daniel, and he asked, "Doctor Jackson? What did you just say?"

"Jack hit me," Daniel said, again, hoping beyond hope that his calculated risk was going to work. He swallowed hard, looked up at the general and could feel the sweat pouring down his back, once again. "Um, a couple weeks ago. We got in a little…what would you call it?"

Jack was shocked. He also knew it was he who Daniel was asking to fill in the missing description. "A tiff?" Jack asked, shrugging, looking to Daniel for concurrence.

"Well…"

"Then a squabble, maybe?"

"I suppose," Daniel answered back, blinking. "More than a squabble, actually, a…"

"A kafuffle, perhaps?" Jack offered.

"Um, no." Daniel turned his attention away from Jack's always interesting vocabulary, and to the general, instead. "The question is, General Hammond, would that be the sort of thing that would…" Daniel dipped one shoulder to the side and grimaced, again praying he hadn't signed Jack's orders to the brig, "…would that be the kind of thing that might look bad on, say, an officer's record?"

"Is this true, Colonel?" the general demanded, his face rapidly working its way through all the reds.

"Uh," Jack mumbled, holding open one hand while he worked through the algorithmic chain of events that might quickly unfold, up to and including massive amounts of unpeeled potatoes when he wasn't spending his twenty-three other hours in solitary.

And with that thought he came to a more salient conclusion. That it was time to make things right, and the best way to do that was to own up to his behavior in the full. "Yes, sir. It is. I have no excuse for my actions. All I can tell you is how much I regret the incident." Jack felt as if leather straps had suddenly been removed from his chest, and for the first time in a week, he could actually breathe again. "Daniel, what I did…It was inexcusable, and I can't tell you how much I regret it."

"Doctor Jackson, am I to assume you did not report this at the time?" the general asked, his bulky hands pressed tight against the table.

"Yes, sir. Or…no, sir," Daniel said, his eyelids fluttering. "Which is to say, I didn't report it, sir."

"Well, people, this is quite a mess we've got on our hands." General Hammond slammed his folder shut and glared at Jack, then at Daniel. A full minute went by when the only sound in the room was the heavy inhalation and exhalations coming from the senior officer. Once in a great while Jack would peek up at Daniel, Daniel at Sam, and Sam at Teal'c, who remained unimpressed by it all.

"Colonel O'Neill, I'm sure you realize I'll be forced to put this in my recommendation, and it will go into your file," the general said.

"Yes, sir," Jack answered back, staring straight ahead.

"And as for you, Doctor Jackson, because of your inaction to come forth with evidence of abuse—"

Daniel held up his finger, and sheepishly interjected, "It was really more like a jab. Really." Daniel looked at Jack, shrugged his shoulders. Jack silently expressed, "What are you gonna do?"

"What the hell kind of show are you running here, Colonel?" the general demanded.

"I've often asked myself that same question, sir," Jack said.

"You realize, don't you, Colonel, that I could throw both of you in the brig at my discretion?"

"Yes, sir. I do."

The general seethed with anger, tapped his pen against his folder, and stared down the two men. "Until I can come to some…conclusion to all this nonsense, both you and Doctor Jackson will be placed under administrative leave. Without pay!" Jack and Daniel hung their heads low, an appropriate show of their obligatory regret. "I'm going to go into my office to think this through, and while I'm in there I'm going to expect each of you to file a written report detailing exactly, and I mean to the letter, what happened. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Jack answered, making damn sure there was nothing else in his voice other than affirmation.

"Uh, yes. Yes, sir." Daniel capped and uncapped his pen.

"One hour, people!" the general said in his wake. Jack only made it halfway up and out of his chair before his CO was out the door.

"Okay, what exactly does administrative leave entail?" Daniel asked, peering over the top of his glasses at anyone who might clarify it for him.

"It means that you'll be formally disciplined, to whatever degree the general deems necessary," Sam explained to him. "That could include a letter in your file, to revoking your contract."

"Oooh," Daniel said, not having considered that possibility.

"But I wouldn't worry about that," Sam said, having sat in on advisory boards before. "What it also means is, after you've filed your report, that you and the colonel won't be allowed on base."

"You mean…" Daniel began.

Sam gave gesture to the words that wouldn't come from him. "Yes, it means you're officially on unpaid leave."

"Oh," Daniel said.

"Huh," Jack said.

"But what about you and Teal'c?" Daniel asked.

"I have no fault in the matter," Teal'c informed them, imperious and forthright.

"I asked you if you wanted to file charges," Sam said, casting a look of self-righteous innocence on her face.

"What about all that talk about the keeping the team together, Major?" Jack asked.

"Well, sir," she said, gathering her notebook, "I was serious about all that, at the time. Now? Well, there's this 1968 Mustang I've been eyeing, and I could really use my two weeks pay."

"And I have been considering upgrading my home theater system," Teal'c said, rounding the table to join Sam in her haughty virtue.

"How nice for you both," Jack said, sneering at them.

"Permission to be—"

"Oh, just go," Jack said, flipping his hand through the air. Sam and Teal'c began to leave, but not before Teal'c paused at Jack's side, offered Jack a smile filled with the knowledge of their recent past, and showed him a sign of his respect. Jack patted Teal'c's arm, and the Jaffa and Sam left the two men alone.

Daniel tapped his pen against his forehead.

Jack, knowing he needed to set just the right tone, and knowing there was still a tremendous chasm between them, decided he should be the first to speak.

Feigning nonchalance, Jack asked, "So, how've you been?"

"Oh, fine. Fine. You?"

"Not too bad, you know, considering."

"Good, good."

"How's the jaw?"

"Oh, that? Fine. Fine."

"I'll pay for any dental bills. Just…you know, send them to me."

Daniel nodded and said, "Yeah, the, uh, government—they kind of took care of that already."

"Oh, right."

"Yeah."

So much for setting a tone, Jack thought.

It's going to take a lot of time, Daniel thought. He stood up to leave, deciding things would be better if they took it slowly, and it would be better if this coalescing didn't happen all at once. It would be better if Daniel could get in the hall and shake out his twitching arms...

"Daniel?" Jack said, and Daniel stopped at the door. Jack pressed himself out of his chair, winced a bit, and paused before coming face to face with his friend. He needed to do more. It wasn't right, not yet. Maybe it never would be, but he had to try. "Now that we're on leave, did you have any plans?"

Daniel pressed his folder to his lips and closed his eyes, thinking. "Nothing off the top of my head, no. Why?"

"What do you know about roofing?"

"Roofing?"

"I'm talking about that thing you put on top of a house."

"Isn't that a chimney?"

"No, that's what goes through a house."

"Oh, right. So…roofing, you say?"

"Right."

Daniel thought about it. "No. No. I can't say I know anything about—"

"Well, I know a little."

"Really."

"It's actually not that hard. You take some shingles, a nail gun…"

"Actually, you know, I've always wanted to shoot one of those," Daniel said, stepping into the hall. Jack walked alongside.

"Tell you what," Jack said, a gesture of excitement coming through his hands, "I'll let you be in charge of it."

"So where's this roof?" Daniel asked, adopting a relaxed pace down the hall.

"Minnesota."

"Aren't there mosquitoes and black flies in Minnesota?"

"Nah, not this time of year," he said, giving Daniel's shoulder a squeeze. "It's too damn cold yet." A certain black pen, square and shaped like a hockey stick, caught Jack's eye, and it happened to be sticking out of Daniel's breast pocket. "Daniel…" Jack ripped the pen from Daniel's pocket.

"How'd that…" Daniel said, trying to act innocent. It wasn't even close to working, so he frowned, shifted his weight and said, "I was just borrowing it."

Jack looked at the pen, looked at Daniel. He remembered a time when Charlie would wear Jack's old watch around. It slung loose on his tiny wrist, but it was a connection when Jack was deployed, far away from his son. And here was Daniel, carrying around a souvenir pen that Jack had picked up in Chicago years ago.

It wasn't right yet. Not quite. There needed to be more. Jack could feel it. He twirled the pen between his fingers, hoping he could come up with the right thing to say.

"When I hit you…I was…" Nope, that wasn't it. He tried again, this time looking Daniel square in the eye. "I'm sorry, Daniel," he said. "I can't tell you how..." Jack took a deep breath, having forgotten to breathe in the last few moments. "But I want you to know, you're a good friend, and…"

"I know." Daniel simply nodded, let a gentle smile work its way across his lips. "We're good."

Jack searched Daniel's eyes. "Good."

"So, about the pen," Daniel said, continuing on down the hall.

"Tell you what," Jack said, touching Daniel's arm, halting him. Jack opened the flap on Daniel's pocket, slid the pen inside, and allowed his hand to linger for a moment. He patted Daniel on the arm, and said, "You can have it."

Daniel squinted down at the pen, and after a moment up at Jack. He knew the exchange had very little to do with a pen and everything to do with friendship. Daniel felt empty spaces filling up, murky borders becoming defined. Jack had given him so many things through the years—helping to fill a once voided future, helping to regain a lost past—that the acceptance of this simple gift seemed to be a continuation, a renewal of their powerful alliance.

"Thank you," Daniel said, and with a mischievous glint in his eye, he added, "I'd rather have the Mont Blanc in your desk, though."

"I have a Mont Blanc?" Jack asked, having no idea where that had come from.

Daniel thought it over, and realized it hadn't been Jack's desk. He grabbed Jack's elbow and ushered him down the hall. "So, Jack, your cabin, which I'm assuming is what needs a roof—it has indoor plumbing, right?"

"What do you know about hot water heaters?"


End file.
